


Finding Peace

by DemolishedbyNeglect



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cats on a Diet, First Time, Foot Massage, M/M, Massage, Non-Explicit, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 22:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20919557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemolishedbyNeglect/pseuds/DemolishedbyNeglect
Summary: Four years after the war Snape finds himself watching Harry. Until one day Harry appears on his doorstep with an offer to publish Snape's book.





	Finding Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta, [hippocrates460](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460) for doing a major job of editing my fic. And if you read any of my previous work, you know the situation was dire.

He hid behind the tree, away from prying eyes of the crowd. The Dartmoor National Park, once the site of the Quidditch World Cup, now still contains a small Quidditch Pitch, used only for games between Ministry Departments.The soil between his boots was pungent and rich with water. He scowled at the mud. 

When he was sure no one was paying attention, he pulled the hood of his cloak down, to cover his face and walked into the clearing, sloshing the mud under his boots. His right foot dragged slightly, he was limping, the tips of fingertips on his right hand and foot succumbing to numbness. He renewed the warming charms to protect him from cold spring air. Not many people attended these friendly Quidditch matches, mostly the families of the players and such. Half of the stands were empty and he had no trouble picking himself a spot, away from the general public with its hooting and crying children. 

He checked his warming charm and sat there, waiting. The cheers suddenly erupted.

The teams of players were out in the field. Potter was playing in the first match today. Good, he wouldn’t be bored out of his mind waiting until Potter’s team started playing. He had no trouble spotting the familiar messy head and the round glasses. His mouth turned bitter, as it usually does, seeing the boy. At the same time he felt his limbs warm from the small shot of adrenaline the sight of short, skinny figure provided. Like a shot of Ogden’s finest. This close he could see the boy smile shyly at the crowd, he wondered who the boy was smiling at. His inspection of the other people at the stands revealed no red headed witch. Perhaps she, as Severus, wore a hood, he mused, but then dismissed the idea. Ginevra Weasley never attended these Sunday matches, supposedly too busy with her own career. 

He watched as the boy spun around in the air, making twists, zigzags and complicated flints. Twice, when the bludger almost hit him, Severus’ dinner rose to his throat. The boy induced nothin but nausea, he thought unkindly. 

And yet, here he was. 

The slight drizzle of rain began. He charmed himself to be impervious to it. The weather this spring has been surprisingly warm, saving his old limbs from aching. Potter spotted the snitch. He could always tell. The boy’s shoulders hunched, his spine curving, preparing for a leap. He tilted his head ever so slightly, his right foot tapped a rhythm in the air, as the boy’s eyes scanned the pitch. 

Potter dove in an arch and the second seeker spotted the maneuver, trying to chase Potter and the snitch. They flew in the air at high speed, making circles. Severus noticed the bludger aiming for Potter too late, he was startled when the boy dove under the broom, hanging upside down on his hands and feet. Severus gripped the wand, ready to shout a spell, but fortunately he saw that Potter was just trying to avoid a bludger, that flew right where his torso was a second ago. 

He almost made a fool of himself, revealing he was spying on the boy. 

Hatred seized his gut, burning brightly, he could feel his cheeks heating. He was a fool. How humiliating would it be, if Potter knew he’d been watching his every match, for over two months now. How would he explain himself? He could see the headlines clearly “Death Eater’s nefarious plans towards The Golden Boy.” 

The second seeker was no match for Potter. Time after time, Severus observed Potter catch the snitch first, on these quidditch weekends. The boy had no competition. Were he to go to the big league and start to play professionally, he’d soon discover himself in a long line of talented youth, shattering the notion his talent was something special. But no. Potter wanted to be an Auror. Here, among unfit Ministry workers he shone like a star, virtually unbeatable. 

Severus assumed that went to the boy’s head. Not that he had seen any evidence of this. He never seen Potter flaunt his victories and show off like his father would have. Sometimes he caught the boy’s almost wistful expression, when he caught the snitch, like he was wasting away without a challenge. 

Perhaps he was. 

Why did he play then, if the opponents weren’t up to his standards? One second later the boy caught the snitch. There. That was the expression. The tight lipped, reserved smile. Severus wished for an open smile, showing Potter’s toothy grin. It could charm away even his stone heart. 

No matter what people thought, he was never made of stone. 

The team members landed on the pitch and small crowd gathered around them. Severus lurked outside of the crowd and caught the sight of Potter’s windblown hair and green eyes. His stomach clenched. This was enough. Enough to last him a week, perhaps two. Before he could avert his eyes, Potter looked right at him. He immediately hid under his hood, cursing his luck, he was sure not even his behemoth of a nose was visible from under the hood of his cloak. 

He bought it specifically for this purpose. His meagre savings suffered for it and he had to dine on porridge for a week, but it was well worth it. It was gray, thick, woollen thing, too large for his size. He had had to trim its bottom edges significantly, but that was the only modification he had had to perform. 

Potter was still looking at him, his gaze narrowed. Without pausing for a breath, Severus turned smoothly and walked around the crowd, out of Potter’s sight. He had to make sure not to limp visibly, otherwise his anonymity wouldn’t be safe for long. Curse the boy. He was probably alert enough about his surroundings to notice a regular in the audience. He’d have to be more careful. Maybe miss a game or two.

He walked smoothly until he was hidden by the quidditch stands and then allowed himself to relax. He apparated from there, not risking going in front of Potter again, to apparate from the forest. 

He awoke at the crack of dawn, to the steady meowing of Banger. He remembered waking up in the middle of the night, after the dream about that blasted snake eating Charity. She was alive in the dream, as the snake consumed her inch after inch. Her eyes, her eyes were bleeding, her mouth in grotesque wail. His guilty conscience gnawed at him half the night, until he fell asleep at about four. At least, he thought grimly, it wasn’t Albus begging him to kill him. This time. He wondered if Potter had nightmares.

He got up, fed the fat beast, went through his morning ablutions and cooked himself some porridge. Clearly not satisfied with his portion of cat food, the little beast rubbed himself on Severus’ legs and meowed pitifully. 

“You’re on a diet.” 

“Meow!”

Banger was a stray he got with the house. The house was bequeathed to him by Albus, but the Ministry wasn’t going to let him have it, before he was pardoned. He was pardoned now. A two story cottage had been renovated to host a large brewery, no doubt courtesy of the late Headmaster. 

He needed to fill his pantry with something other flour. He went to check on the amount of money he had saved. Ten galleons and four sickles and twelve knuts. He had some muggle money as well. The village near his cottage was a Wizard village. The fingers of his right hand started to feel numb. He ignored it. He had six large orders for potions ready. Ideally, he’d have twenty five galleons by tomorrow, if the owls delivered him money for the potions. Sometimes clients changed their mind, found a bargain elsewhere and Severus was left with a useless potion and a hole in his budget, like the specialized burn potion that had been sitting on his shelf for over a week. He spent his savings to get through the first years after St. Mungo’s released him. Barely moving his right hand and leg, the muscles on the right sight of his face numb and stiff. His smirk, previously unpleasant, became grotesque. 

Yet, he persevered. He always used both hands in brewing and spellwork, interchangeably. It helped him to brew those first restorative droughts, based on phoenix tears. Costly, but effective. No use crying about those galleons. If it weren’t for them, he would be a cripple, his mobility reduced even more.

He took a basket, let Banger out of the door and into the garden, and went on his way to town. He picked potatoes and sausages. The cheapest kind. He had a simple taste in food, his early life taught him not to be picky. A couple of cabbages, because he fancied them on his potatoes and soup. Rice, beans, some apples. He reminded himself that he still had to pay for amenities. He wondered what kind of food Potter’s girlfriend cooked for him. Molly’s famous pies and onion soup, he’d wager. He knew Potter didn’t have a special diet. He, on the other hand, couldn’t stomach too much sugar, after his run in with the snake. He’d discovered it in St. Mungo’s, when he ate the chocolate frog left for him by the brat. He never had a sweet tooth, but he ate the frog, eager to delude himself the sweet could be a sign of affection. Nobody simply gave him things. Albus, in past, had gifted him with a woolen cloak, made perfectly to his taste. It had special spellwork woven into its threads to make the fabric last. He couldn’t even touch it now. 

He didn’t know why he’d had a sudden craving for that chocolate frog. The boy brought him Potions Weekly, heavy tomes from Hogwarts’ library, the bloody Prophet. But that single chocolate frog was what made him go all soft in the head, feeling like he was fifteen again, lying alone in the Hospital wing and feeling like somebody had reached out to him. 

He scowled at the passing market woman. He picked his onions carefully, small ones, one for each meal. He bought muggle cat food because Banger was only getting fatter on a diet of sausages and meatballs. On muggle cat food he lost two cm around his stomach. Severus measured. There was a potion for a higher metabolism, but he wasn’t going to test it on a cat. It had unfortunate side effects, like a headache and high risk for diabetes. 

He walked back to his cottage at a slower pace, his limp more pronounced. He wondered if Potter bought himself a new owl. He heard the boy grieved his previous familiar, the boy was too soft hearted. Maybe he’d gotten something new and exotic, to stand out from the crowd. He imagined a Phoenix, used as a delivery owl for The Boy Who Lived. Potter in his vision looked more like James, arrogant sneer and cocky attitude. 

His right knee began to feel numb. Usually this happened only on rare occasion he’d have to run errands all over the isle. Anxiously, he renewed the warming charms. His eyes jumped from tree to tree accusingly. The road narrows here, rising on a steady uphill climb. He was relieved when he saw his cottage behind the line of hedges. 

The white walls stood out in the green scenery. When he was close enough he immediately felt his wards disturbed. Somebody found him. No matter his injuries, he was still a good duelist. Only one person went through the wards, he was sure he could best them in a fight. He shrank the basket and put it in his pocket, in case he needed to flee, he’d have something to last him two weeks. 

He took his wand out and went through the secret opening in the hedge. It was piece of hedge, charmed to look as piece of bush. He went straight through it, and crept through the garden. Someone was sitting on his front porch. 

A very familiar someone. 

He emerged from the garden, limping and scowling. 

“Potter!”

The figure jumped. The boy was wearing Auror robes, deep blue with gold trimming - clearly new, with his usual run down trainers. He smiled and pushed his glasses up his nose, when he saw Severus. He mumbled something akin to “OhhiprofessorSnape”. Severus sighed. Potter looked even better in the sun and up close than he did at his friendly matches. His eyes were as green as he remembered, the green of fresh pine trees, the green of emerald. His right hand was bandaged messily, stained yellow. This close Severus could just make out the scent of anti-burn salve. He took the basket out of his pocket and returned it to its original size. 

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he snapped, opening the door. “Come inside.” 

He unpacked his basket, once inside, stuffing the vegetables in the cupboards and the sausages into the fridge. The house had water, electricity and even central heating. Severus paid the bills in winter, indulging himself on warmth, unable to make himself cut off the source of blissful heat. Since the Nagini’s bite the cold made the right sight of his body ache, his muscles stabbed with needles. 

He closed the cupboards and gave himself time to prepare for the radiant figure in the living room. What brought Potter here? Had he recognized him after all on a Sunday? Had he come for an explanation? Another thought struck him: was Potter here on official Auror business? 

He heard insistant meowing from the living room and the sound of Potter’s soft voice filled the empty rooms of his house with sunshine, something bright and light, a fresh sea air inside the shapes of red brick.

“Oh, hello there!” he said in mild surprise. “You’re a big boy, aren’t you?”

Severus snickered, then tried to compose himself. Composed, he emerged from the kitchen, his face impassive. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t have anything to give you,” Potter was patting the cat with his left hand. “Maybe next time.”

“He doesn’t need you to feed him, Potter, I thought that much was obvious.”

Banger rolled around on his back, exposing his stomach for pats. Severus rolled his eyes. 

“You traitorous beast,” he grunted under his breath. 

Deciding best strategy was bluffing, Severus drew a breath. “Official Auror business, Potter?” 

“Oh, no! Nothing like that!” The boy brushed his right hand against the sofa and winced. 

Severus’ eyes narrowed. From the scent alone he could tell the proportion of ingredients was off from a standard version of burning salve, and even standard version was weak compared to his own improved formula. 

“I recently arrested a wizard harassing a famous publishing house. Now they want to repay the favour.” 

Severus waved a hand. “The Flourish and Blotts case, I know. It was in the Prophet Potter. What could it possibly have to do with me?”

Potter rubbed the back of neck absentmindedly. “They wanted me to publish a book. A memoir. I said I had a better idea. Now, before you reject my idea, I have to say that Half-Blood Prince’s book was exceptional material, you improved most of the recipes in the book and made the process seem... easy and entertaining.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed. He felt like a fool standing in his own living room, staring Potter down. He leaned his left shoulder against the wall, the right side of his body was tingling unpleasantly, and pondered why the great Harry Potter was here complimenting his old sixth year textbook. 

“Get to the point.”

“Severus Snape’s Advanced Potion Making.”

For a moment a sudden vision visited him: his old dreams of being an author. He wanted to get his own procedures of potion brewing published, since he was, what? Fourteen, fifteen? An esteemed curriculum, approved by the Ministry, with his name on the cover, in shiny silver letters. To maybe pave the road to a more risky, experimental books. Potions for the darkest of curses, to halt the spread of dark magic, to stopper death. 

How dare Potter resurrect these dreams now? What right did he have to dangle his old dreams in front of him? 

“Get out.”

Potter gaped. “What? No, wait…”

“Out!”

“Professor!”

“I’m no longer your professor,” parried Snape smugly. 

“Alright, I’ll go, but promise me to think about it, alright?” Potter was backing towards the door. 

“Stop. Wait here.” 

Severus went to his potions lab and retrieved a burning salve. He just happened to have one of the orders cancel on him previously and his version of the burning salve was infinitely better than whatever it was Potter’s hand was smeared in. 

But Merlin, Potter looked quite well, aside from the burn. He hadn’t grown an inch, but he filled out in muscles, taking his wiry frame from scrawny to athletic. But in his presence, he was still awkward with his limbs, as he had been in school and in hospital, when he visited Severus. That hasn’t changed. His voice was deeper too, it was a man’s voice now, rough enough to send shivers down Snape’s spine. 

Snape tossed the jar at Potter, who caught it effortlessly with left hand. Seeker reflexes. He was tempted to offer to rub the salve himself, to stand close enough to touch him, but he told himself it would have to be enough just to have seen him here, amid his books and trinkets, walking on his floor and breathing the same air.

He lets him go without even asking how the brat found him. Did it matter? Minerva or that bumbling idiot Edwards who handled Albus’ will must have told Potter where to look. He let him go, but something told him that now that Potter had discovered the road to his house, it would not be long before he occupied all of Severus’ daily routines from brewing to feeding Banger. Not in the flesh of course, but amid his thoughts.

Speaking of, the cat was meowing loudly at him, rubbing insistently against his legs. 

“You’ll NOT be fed before time.”

He bent and rubbed the beast behind the ears. Banger was a British Shorthair with gray fur and amber eyes, notably Severus remembered the breed was first introduced to him as the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. He snorted. _ That makes me Alice _, he thought, his spirits high after the brat’s visit. These cats were supposed to be chunky, he knew, but Banger was fat. When he first got him, he could barely run. 

A loud tapping sound ringed in the quiet of his house. His heart leapt, had Potter returned? But it was just an owl. He counted the galleons in the letter it brought. The exact amount for a stain remover he had brewed. Good. If the galleons for his orders kept coming, he might splurge and renew his subscription to Potions Weekly. 

He went about his day, purposefully not thinking about Potter and his publishing offer. 

He brewed simple cosmetic concoctions, they were easy to make and had a higher price, mostly due to the demand. Five more owls came, growing his meagre savings by twenty-five galleons, four sickles and twenty-four knuts in one day. Not bad. Not bad at all. Of course he’d had to apparate all over the continent for ingredients for two of those potions, but now that was behind him, he could perhaps buy the new book by Rubens Winikus. 

The man made a fortune from Skele-Gro, must he rob the public with a book worth six galleons? He tried reading the book at Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley. Discreetly. It was charmed not to open beyond page twenty. He still fumed with anger over that one. 

As he finished the brewing and tending the garden, and started cooking himself dinner, bangers and mash. As always, his thoughts returned to Potter. The magnanimous hero wanted him to publish a book? How ridiculous. He was a Death Eater, for crying out loud, nobody would touch a book of his with ten foot pole! He remembered all the recipes in the book, as he did most potions. Although Nagini’s poison ravaged his body, it hadn’t touched his mind, which he was endlessly thankful for.

He poured cat food into Banger’s bowl and made sure to pour some water to soften the food and make the cat drink water. His litter box was charmed to vanish the waste, but he had to periodically fill it with sand. His right foot was fully numb, he walked awkwardly out of the house and took a bit of sand from the garden and filled the litter box. 

When he went to sleep that night he prayed for dreamless sleep. Banger curled up on his lap. He stroked the cat’s fur, until it started purring. The wind outside lulled him to sleep. 

Potter showed up two days later at his doorstep, wearing the same Auror robes. Something was different about him, but Severus couldn’t put his finger on it. He was just about to go into the nearest forest to collect the ingredients for a new batch of potions.

“I’m busy,” he snapped instead of greeting and walked out of the garden. 

Potter followed him. 

“When I saw you last time you could barely move the right side of your body!” 

It appeared Potter was not only going to follow him into the forest, but was going to entertain him with mindless chatter along the way. He could not walk as briskly, as he was used to, his limp preventing him from keeping too fast of a pace. As a result, Potter had no trouble keeping up. 

“I see your observational skills have improved,” he cast a quick glance at Potter. 

The boy was walking oddly too. He frowned, noticing for the first time, that instead of his run down trainers, Potter was wearing new leather shoes. Well, this was bound to happen sooner or later, he supposed. He remembered those trainers from Hogwarts. He decided not to look closely at the fact that he was watching Potter so closely that he was intimately familiar with what shoes the boy wore. 

“But you’re still… Um...” 

“Limping? Awkward with my right hand? If, you’re here to point out my defects, Potter...” 

“No, no! I was just wondering… Um.. Does it still hurt, sir?” said Potter, concern etching his voice.

“It’s unpleasant, my limbs go numb if I overexert myself. Nothing more,” and it was torture to go out in cold weather, but he didn’t divulge that, “I should be grateful I can move at all. Thanks to Minerva, who went to retrieve my body at all, not unlike some individuals,” Severus said in a nasty voice, if only to mess with Potter.

He could feel the boy blushing, even if he had his back to him. They entered the forest and Severus walked along the trail he paved there. Their pace slowed. The new foliage and blooming trees made quite a view. Thankfully, the soil was dry, he wouldn’t come home bringing mud on his boots and cloak. 

“Is there nothing that could be done?”

Trust the boy to care about his condition. Was he simply being polite? Did he feel sorry for him? Severus didn’t need Potter’s pity, thank you very much. Not when he wanted the boy to view him as an equal, not that he would ever be worth as much as Gryffindor hero, all courage, light and righteousness. No, but to be viewed as someone less than, someone to be pitied, with no chance at all for… for what? Even the possibility of any partnership with Potter was absurd.

“There’s a plant in the magical part of Amazonia. Nocturno impetu. It would repair the nerve damage, but finding it would be a suicide mission. No one could survive these magical jungles alone, small as they are. They are twice as dangerous as the Forbidden Forest.”

“I bet _ you _ could do it,” Potter said with absolute conviction. 

“You flatter me.”

“Your salve,” the boy changed the topic of conversation suddenly. “It really helped. Numbed the pain immediately and healed the burn within a day.”

“As it should have.” 

They arrived to the first plant. Severus hesitated. But then he took a small chair out of his pocket, enlarged it and sat on it. Sitting on his haunches led to greater numbing and loss of mobility. He didn’t want Potter to see he’d needed a chair. Bugger. Potter eyed his chair with longing. 

“Don’t suppose you have a second?”

“Whatever for?” 

“It’s my feet, they’re killing me,” Potter winced. “Ginny told me my trainers don’t fit my uniform, they embarrass me, I need new shoes. Made me buy these,” he pointed at his leather shoes. “Wouldn’t even let me keep my old trainers!”

Severus smirked as he gathered up the Molly plant. “Uncomfortable are they?” 

Potter winced. “Quite. I’m sure I have half a dozen blisters by now.”

Severus brain began calculating. He had something just for the ailment, but for a client. He could brew the second potion, he’d had the ingredients left. He could give it to Potter with instructions on how to use it, or he could do it himself. The temptation was too great, he couldn’t resist it. To put his hands on Potter. 

The nightmares that plagued him last night left him feeling hollow, stained with darkness, broken beyond repair. He dreamed of Albus again, of green flash of killing curse, his own hand lifted, his own wand to cast the awful spell. He couldn’t make himself touch his wand upon waking. Lying in darkness, dreading the morning when the light would touch him and expose him for what he was - a murderer. Only Banger’s presence was a comfort, a warm weight still lying on his lap, the soft fur beneath his fingers, a steady breath of something alive that wouldn’t shun him. 

He felt like he needed to touch Potter. He wanted to reach for him in distress like his father reached for the little silver cross he wore on his neck. He wanted to touch something holy, something pure, to lift the spell the darkness had him under. 

Potter followed him through the forest, though his steps got even more clumsy. Severus gathered all the plants he needed, his eyes watching the boy in between his breaths, when the Auror wasn’t paying attention. Sometimes the boy would lean close, watching closely the plants he was gathering, asking questions about their nature and properties. 

Severus was alarmed to discover that Potter’s eyes held shadows. This close he could see the thin blue veins crossing the boy’s eyelids, the famous scar hidden by hair. The slight imperfections on his skin, a thin white scar on his right cheekbone. He could fix them for the boy, but a voice inside him told him Potter would have no interest in that. 

The boy wasn’t sleeping well. He was sure of that. And he’d had enough material in his life to fuel a lifetime of nightmares. They weren’t so different after all. Were they?

When he gathered the last herb, he proposed side-apparition to the house, to spare the boy from walking. He still didn’t know the purpose of his visit. Potter sagged in relief, clearly glad he didn’t have to cover the distance from the forest to his cottage. Severus put his hands above Potter’s shoulders, in a poor imitation of a hug, but the boy clung to him like moss to the bark of a tree, circling his arms around Severus’ waist and bringing them impossibly close. This close, Snape could smell Potter’s sweat and the scent of his soap. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, savoring the sensation of the boy in his arms. Careful, he told himself. 

They apparated outside the gates. Potter followed him into the house, his stroll reminding Severus of a bear. Potter must have noticed Severus’ amusement, because he shrugged as if saying: what else can I do?

“I have something for your feet. Sit and take your shoes off.”

He left the room and returned with a large bowl of water and the necessary potion. He put the bowl under Potter’s feet and poured the potion into water. He took a good look at Potter’s feet, they were compact, like the rest of the boy, but they were also bloody and quite blistered. 

“Put your feet in the water.” 

The boy complied. Severus took his wand out and placed the necessary enchantment. The water glowed blue for a moment and a faint aroma of mint penetrated the air. Satisfied, Severus rolled his sleeves and touched Potter’s feet. The boy jumped.

“What are you doing?!” he cried, panicked.

“The potion must massaged into the skin, Potter,” Severus’ replied calmly, although he felt embarrassed by the Hero’s reaction. How awful, the greasy git is touching him, The Golden Boy would never survive the horror, he thought maliciously. 

“Do you really have to… touch my feet?” 

At least Potter looked as self-conscious as he felt. 

“Do you think I’d volunteer if I didn’t?” he sneered.

Potter relaxed into the armchair and Severus carefully examined all of his blisters. Some of them burst and the skin there was rubbed to blood. He started rubbing the sensitive places, carefully letting the potion do its work. He had experience with massage, he’d spent one summer away from Hogwarts in India, researching ways to become immortal for Albus. He learned how to massage there, doing it on his own hands after a complicated potion became a routine. He massaged his right leg and his right arm after Nagini’s bite, although doing it on oneself wasn’t nearly as effective as having a professional do it for you. He didn’t worry about the poison spreading, it was out of his system by then. Unfortunately the damage to his nerve ending was done. 

The boy’s feet had no calluses, his skin was soft, with no hardened patches. No wonder he’d blistered in new shoes this easily. Snape briefly wondered how that soft skin would feel under his lips. He washed his small toes for no other reason than because he wanted to, enjoying the freedom he’d been given, giving them the treatment he would give to the stems and roots of his ingredients, meaning he did it with care and precision. Seeing that the brat didn’t make any more attempts to stop him, he became bolder and started applying pressure to certain points of Potter’s feet. It got a reaction. Potter tilted his head back, his lips parted and he released a quiet moan. 

“That feels amazing...”

“What’s the purpose of your visit, Potter?” 

Potter sighed, but he didn’t lift his head.

“I brought a contract from Flourish and Blotts. I thought you’d at least need to read through what you’d be missing. It’s a standard contract with a few improvements. The publisher wants to hire a third party to test your improved formula for all the potions. They will work independent of you.”

“Pointless, completely pointless. The point for selling a book for a publisher is to make profit. Nobody would buy this book. It’s a fool’s errand.”

“Why’d you stop?” Potter lifted his head now.

He was confused for a moment what Potter was referring to, then he understood. He lifted an eyebrow and resumed the massage. That earned him a satisfied sound from Potter’s lips.

“Wait! Do you not remember the recipes in Advanced Potion Making?”

Severus found a burst blistered and pushed his finger onto the sensitive skin there. 

“Oww!” Potter yelped in pain.

The older man smiled maliciously. “I remember every improved formula. Some of them have been enhanced beyond what you’ve seen, after my sixth year, during my tenure at Hogwarts.” 

Potter twitched. Severus raised his head to find that Banger jumped on the armchair and was now making a bed of Potter’s lap. The brat stroked the fur of the beast affectionately, calling the cat a “Big Boy” and “Soft Fluffy Ball”. His voice was pitched just so, producing an ache in Severus’ chest. Sometimes his mother would speak to him in that voice, soothing and affectionate, brushing his hair after a bath, telling him he was the smartest wizard she knew. 

His mother was a proud woman, even after her marriage started to fail, she was too proud to go back to the family that disowned her. She taught Severus how to make soap in their kitchen, it was the first thing he brewed. Eileen taught him what she knew of making potions, inventing hexes, spitting curses. She never watched her tongue around him, like other parents did. Tobias loathed her for that, always trying to make good with God, but not afraid to raise a hand to his wife. 

He went back to the present, massaging Potter’s feet. The boy would make small noises and Snape couldn’t help but wonder. It soothed him, the act, simple as it were, he felt like a monk chanting a prayer, cleansing himself from worldly sins. He stretched it longer than was strictly necessary. When he finished he went to look at Potter’s face and was surprised to notice the boy was flushed, his cheeks red, his eyes dark. The boy was clinging to the Banger on his lap, like a drowning man to the hull of a boat. 

The boy was embarrassed, that’s what it was. Severus was on his knees before him. Suddenly disgusted by himself, he rose to his feet and left the room, throwing “We’re finished” at Potter. He went upstairs for a towel and when he came back, Potter appeared to compose himself. 

“I don’t have a single blister anymore, your potion did wonders,” said Potter, not quite looking him in the eye. “I left something here, on the table,” he pointed at the scroll on the coffee table. “It’s your contract. Please read it. Examine it. I know you don’t trust me, but I promise you your book is worth publishing.”

Banger was sitting at Potter’s feet. Only now Snape noticed that Potter put his shoes on already. His towel was no longer needed, it seemed. 

“If whoever they hire to test the recipes will judge the majority of potion formulas to be better, then the publisher would recommend the book for Hogwarts curriculum,” that got Snape’s attention. “Just think about it, alright? I’ll be back.”

“Potter,” Snape looked pointedly at his shoes. “Buy yourself new trainers.”

Then Potter was out of the front door, leaving Snape alone in his house. Banger was rubbing at his feet now and meowing softly. It was lunch time, he needed to feed the cat and he needed to brew the potion he wasted on Potter. Somehow it was hard to see it as waste, even though he probably humiliated himself before Potter’s eyes. He looked at his hands, the hands that touched the boy, there was a faint mint scent in the room still. 

He could already feel that it would be difficult going back to simply watching the boy from afar. Hearing Potter’s voice chat him up was something he missed from his stay at St. Mungo’s. His own voice was barely audible back then, he couldn’t tell the boy off, he was left to glare and grimace, and pray the boy would leave, while wanting, no, needing him to stay. 

After an entire year of animosity from his colleagues, after Albus’ murder, after believing the boy to be a walking dead man, simply being in the presence of someone who didn’t loathe him completely had been a relief. He hadn’t needed to explain himself, to ask for forgiveness, which he didn’t deserve. Potter knew everything there was to know about him. The memories he had spilled in a moment of despair could make the boy either hate him, or finally understand his motivations. Although Severus would never voluntarily have shared something so intimate with a son of his enemy, Potter junior never made him regret it. He was nothing but tactful, respectful and even caring in their interaction after war. 

He visited him in certain hours and never showed up when he was in the middle of bathing or healing procedures. He never missed a single visit. Severus would write him a book that he wanted to read and Potter would bring it to him, asking no questions. He knew the boy kept Aurors far away and insisted his hospital door shouldn’t be guarded. 

But it was his presence, his light, that drew Severus in. Potter told him the tale of him and his friends journey, all of the last year, on the run from Dark Lord. He told him about their meagre rations, their petty fights. It seemed like he wanted someone to listen. Severus listened. 

Potter would make self-deprecating jokes that didn’t fit the image Severus had of the Boy Who Lived. He was humble, introspective and compassionate. He told Severus of the Battle of Hogwarts. Severus watched as the boy got misty eyed at the mention of the Creevey boy’s death. Potter wiped the tears and just sat for a moment in silence, his head in his hands. His right foot was tapping the chair’s leg nervously. Severus remembered Colin Creevey. A tiny thing, always carrying a camera with him. Photographing the landscapes of Hogwarts, Quidditch matches and the infinite magical miracles inside the castle walls. And, of course, Harry Potter. He had passable marks in Potions. A little lower in Defence. He talked so fast he swallowed words. 

Severus sat in a solemn silence, imagining children against adult wizards. Wizards he knew to be twisted, powerful, deadly and cruel. He hadn’t been able to protect them. They had been his responsibility and he got himself bitten, when the battle was about to start. Shame washed over him. All of these deaths were on him, the boys and girls he taught and took points from. After all, he was the Headmaster, wasn’t he? 

Somebody touched his hand. It was Potter. 

“I can tell what you’re thinking,” the boy had said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He shook off the comfort offered and glared at Potter. But the boy took his hand in his again. 

“It wasn’t. It was Voldemort.”

He tossed Potter’s hand away, and lay on the bed, his back to the boy. The boy left, but not before telling him he felt guilty too. That compassionate moment lingered with Severus long after he was discharged. He knew others would judge him for the senseless loss of young life, but at least one wizard who fought among his side didn’t blame him for it. That was more than he had hoped for. 

He pulled away from his memories. He needed to sort the herbs he gathered and brew. He ignored the parchment on the coffee table and went about his day. He brewed the potions until five, then went to make dinner. Banger started pestering him an hour before each meal, meowing incessantly. Ideally, the cat needed to be exercised, but Severus often found himself too busy in the day time, and too tired in the night time. Perhaps he could work on a charm to make the common objects move like mice, something to keep the cat occupied. He knew since Banger started to get fed regularly by Severus he stopped scavenging for food. He was a domestic cat anyway, he was after all castrated, as The Potions Master discovered when the cat first flopped on its back for belly rubs. 

While he cooked, his eyes kept wandering to the living room. What if he could really publish his improved recipes? What if this wasn’t some elaborate sharade Potter was playing at? The boy seemed sincere enough. But to have his book as a part of Hogwarts’ curriculum, unthinkable. He would never admit it, but it grated on him that even Lockhart managed to publish himself, while his name was a scarecrow sign for even Potions Weekly. Even working at Hogwarts, under Albus’ patronage, couldn’t wash away his affiliation with the Dark Lord. That and his lack of proper connections and funds, meant many of his articles were mailed back, unopened. 

He was still bitter about them. 

He had dinner, fed Banger and massaged his right leg and hand, to relieve some of the numbness. He was finished for the day. Perhaps a proper bath would do. He drew himself a hot bath and put his clothes away. He avoided catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, knowing he wouldn’t see anything new there. 

The bath warmed his limbs and he relaxed into the water, thinking of Potter’s little toes in his hands. Banger sneaked into the room and jumped at the edge of the bathtub. He imagined all Potter’s imperfections. The left side of his jaw was slightly sharper than the right, there was a bare spot in his left brow, the thin white scar on his right cheekbone he discovered today, a scar from the failed Killing Curse. He fondled them like precious gemstones, warming them in his mind, suffusing these imperfections with his energy. Each time he discovered a new one he imagined it in his mind, imagined tracing the outline of Potter’s scars with hands, with his lips. 

There was a new energy in his body, his hand traveled down his chest, grazing a nipple, then dowl his navel, to his half hard member. He opened his eyes and was treated to sign of Banger, drinking water straight from his bath. 

“You damned beast, you’ve got fresh water downstairs!”

Banger ignored him. 

Severus sighed. He was flaccid again. 

***

Next morning he apparated to Diagon Alley for ingredients he couldn’t obtain in the forest. Dittany was on sale, which was good, Unicorn hair’s price kept dropping and was now currently at 8 galleons 15 knuts. Where was this price, when he was brewing himself healing potions? Thankfully, only rare potions required Unicorn hair, since he isn’t Slughorn, brewing two Beautification Potions a month. 

Against his better judgement he stopped by Flourish and Blotts and bought himself a copy of “Obscure Magical Theory behind Potions” by Rubens Winikus. Six galleons and Eleven knuts short now, he returned home. He ignored the rolled parchment on his coffee table and, as he had no brewing to do for today, immersed himself in his new book. He missed lunch, but reluctantly fed Banger, not parting with his reading. By six o’clock that evening he had finished his book and was scandalised. 

The book offered no new information to him. Yes, it included rare South Asian and Native American potion theory, but Snape already read about it from the rare tomes Albus brought him from his world travels. And this cost him six galleons? This was daylight robbery!

His eyes stopped at his coffee table. Unable to ignore the parchment any more, he grabbed the roll and skimmed the contents. Conflicting emotions battled within him, the desire to show his accomplishments and the fear of failure and mockery. The faith in Potter’s good intentions and the doubt about the same from the publisher. 

He sat on the sofa, breathed, composed himself and started to read the contract again. It was a standard contract, all in all. Except for one thing. He’d make almost thirteen percent from the book price he would sell. That was double of what any author would make! No doubt this was Potter’s doing. He could see it, starting to experiment with new ingredients he couldn’t afford right now. Not afraid of letting the expensive ingredients go to waste. Maybe writing a book with his own _ patented _ recipes! 

He had never obtained a single patent for his creations. You need to be a member of Potions Guild for that.

The formula for Drought for effects of Cruciatus was something he invented through trial and error, experimenting on himself, after tasting Voldemort’s wrath. He could patent it and open a laboratory to brew a single potion. It had been done before. But see, he didn’t have only one formula to patent. He had dozens. 

He could be offered his place back in Potions Guild. Could? He certainly would be! 

Merlin, the possibilities were endless. 

He looked at the contract and could see his life changing, slowly, but surely. And this was Potter’s doing, his initiative. He’d forever owe the boy for bringing this opportunity to his doorstep. He didn’t want to owe Potter anything. But between the chance of owing something to some stranger he’d hardly knew and the Boy Who Lived, he’d choose Potter. 

With the weekend approaching Snape was facing a dilemma: to go watch Potter’s quidditch match or not. After he’d been released from St. Mungo’s he had not seen Potter in person for four years. He read about him in the Prophet, the various articles on receptions held in honor of the Battle of Hogwarts, the various charity events the boy attended. Not all of them had a beautiful redhead by his side, most of the time he had Granger and Weasley there. 

His… feelings, he grimaced just thinking it, for Potter remained steady and unchanged. Maybe they started even earlier than his unfortunate stay in St. Mungo’s. Every time he contemplated that, he was appalled with himself. He watched the boy too closely, dissecting his moods, roaming his most embarrassing memories, suspecting him of stealing his ingredients. Always locked in some sort of power play between himself and the ghost of James Potter. 

He had not noticed it then. The heat of Harry Potter’s name, the smooth silkiness of it under his tongue and the dangerous pull of it in his thoughts. Everything gravitated towards the boy, nothing interesting, as it seemed at the time, happened without the boy. He did not know when he crossed the line and started to see those green eyes, raven hair, straight angry eyebrows and soft mouth as beautiful. One moment there was an ordinary scrawny boy in front of him, the next he stared into an angry gaze of fae like beauty. 

In St. Mungo’s the amorphous urges and feelings finally took form. Potter was not only blessed with beauty, he was also blessed with the sort of light Snape had always been drawn to. He made the room brighter by walking in, his smile shone like the sun - the kind of smile that hurts to look at, that warms you to your core.

He’d been kind to Severus after a long drought and the blessed rain of it washed away the image of his father lingering in his subconscious. Snape was angry, hurt and alone, but there was a rock, amid the sea of turmoil there, Potter’s steady voice reading his periodicals and stumbling on every third word. Potter’s own pain and grief, the dark circles under his eyes, the shaking hands and red eyes, offered to Snape to shred, to ridicule, to mock. 

He was unable to do it. He could only stare. Watch. Fall. 

With a sharp flick of his hand, Severus took his gray woollen cloak out of the closet and wrapped it wound his shoulders. 

He would see Potter play.

***

He returned in a sour mood. Ginevra Weasley had been there to see the match. Severus could hear her cheers of support from where he was sitting, one empty quidditch stand between them. She had run to hug Potter, after he’d caught the snitch. 

He wondered, could she tell he wasn’t satisfied with the game? That Potter wanted a real competition? Of course, there couldn’t possibly be a best match for Potter. He’d finally become an official member of the Weasley family after all. Yet, he doubted she really saw Potter underneath that Hero armour. But she’d give him family, children, happiness. What more could Severus want for him anyway? 

He threw himself into cleaning the house, Banger following him from room to room. Then he collapsed in exhaustion on the sofa. Banger lept from the floor into his lap. He stroked his fur gently. He’d need a little catnip, to turn a stuffed piece of fabric into a mouse, for the cat. Banger needed the exercise. 

***

Snape hadn’t seen Potter for a week when he appeared on a Saturday, grinning from ear to ear. He was wearing new trainers with his usual too-big shirt and jeans.

“Signed the contract yet?”

“Brat,” said Snape rolling his eyes. “So sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Not always, but right now yes. I happen to know you’ve been offered a good deal,” Potter followed him into the kitchen and Severus put the kettle on. 

“And if I refuse?” 

Potter shrugged. Snape could see the boy’s collar bones through the stretched neckline of his tee. He swallowed the sudden desire to trace them with his tongue. Potter looked around his kitchen curiously. A couple of plants he used in cooking grew on the window sill, some were hanging from the ceiling left to dry. 

“Do you brew here?” he asked finally.

“No.”

“Where then?”

Severus rolled his eyes and made the tea. “In the basement. It’s a fully equipped laboratory, but I’m not giving you a tour.”

“He took care of you then...” Potter said sadly, and there was grief under in his eyes. He rubbed his dry eyes and tightened his mouth. 

It took a moment before Severus could figure out the brat meant Albus. 

“I don’t want to discuss it,” he spat. 

“I’m sorry,” Potter flinched. “I feel like everybody moved on from the war, but I keep lingering on all the sharp corners, everything painful. I have nightmares still, did you know?” The boy rubbed his shoulder, shuffled his feet.

“Tea?” Snape offered, politely. 

They drank the tea in companionable silence, but the boy’s words wouldn’t leave him. He contemplated opening more of himself to the Hero and tried to think of reasons not to. He didn’t fully trust Potter yet, even though by now he knew he was not James, he was still rash and impulsive, angry and easily riled up. Although he could see the dark circles under the boy’s eyes when he came to drop the contract, he wasn’t sure he should be the one to help. 

“What are the nightmares about?” 

“Oh, you know, the usual. Voldemort killing Ron or Hermione, the Battle of Hogwarts all over again, people I love dying,” Potter picked at his clothes. 

“You,” he said after a pause, looking right at Severus. 

“Detentions still bother your imagination, Potter?” Severus mocked.

The boy’s eyes flashed with anger. “Go to hell, Snape!” he put the teacup in a saucer roughly. “I see you bleeding out on the floor of Shrieking Shack, while I’m helpless to stop it.”

Severus made a noncommittal “hmm” and drank his tea. There were no biscuits in the house, nothing sweet to swallow the bitterness away. Potter carried survivor’s guilt with him, no doubt. That guilt could destroy the boy if he was not careful, turn him bitter like spoiled milk, turn him cold and unfeeling. Destroy his light completely. Make an abandoned temple of his beautiful body, with none of the blessings of the holy spirit. 

Yet the boy was still standing proudly, unbowed and unbent. Unlike himself.

“Tell me how you deal with them, with nightmares. Tell me I’m not the only one who can’t forget their bloody faces, Snape,” whispered Potter urgently. 

“You overstep...”

“Stop it, you bastard, I can see shadows under your eyes, I _ know _ you. You showed yourself to me and I know you did it only because you thought you were dying, but it doesn’t matter now. Don’t...” he breathed, trying to get himself under control. “Don’t push me away.”

Severus was unused to see Potter begging. With no small amount of surprise he discovered he couldn’t stand the boy begging. It produced a buzz, a humming in his guts, he felt like a fish out of water, thrown out of its element, vulnerable and unable to stop struggling. Unable to take a proper breath. 

“What is it you want?” asked Snape uneasily. 

“Maybe I’m the only one who can’t move on, maybe...” Potter started babbling, his eyes retreating inward, with ghosts dancing on those green fields. 

Snape reached above the table and took Potter’s hands in his. Severus could see the desperation clearly on Potter’s face and he wondered why the boy didn’t seek support from his friends and why he was here now, with him. Potter’s hands were so unlike his feet. The skin was rougher, calloused, dry and tanned.

“I dream of Albus and Professor Burbage. The dreams themselves are not especially profound or terrifying, it’s the feelings they bring. Of darkness, hopelessness, desperation. Most of all of guilt.”

He released Potter’s hands and the boy was looking at him with big eyes, wide open. 

“I had nighttime terrors for my entire life, mind you. Before it was the Dark Lord it was my father. The potions I’ve used only offer temporary relief. They’re too expensive to drink regularly and detrimental to my health. I have no answer to your plea, Potter, I am a man who struggles with nightly terrors similar to your own and haven’t found the answer to how to be rid of them.” 

Potter didn’t look particularly disappointed.

“Some weeks I go without seeing Albus’ face once,” Severus’ voice broke. He breathed a ragged breath and Potter’s eyes were full of sympathy. “Some weeks I dream about him every day.”

“It’s the same for me. I can go a month without the nightmares, then something brings up the memory and they come. It’s… difficult to wake up alone. My heart races, I’m terrified and the mere shadows in the room frighted me. Ron and Hermione admitted to me it’s rare they dream of the war. In my dreams my scar hurts. When I wake up, it’s difficult to go to sleep again. I… I lie awake waiting for any sign of pain in my scar.”

“Understandable.”

“You’re right though, it’s not so much the dreams, but the feelings they bring. They linger with me during the day. I’m irritable, quick to start fights, I want to be left alone,” the boy ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just… I thought you of all people would understand.”

“I do,” Severus answered shortly. He poured himself a cup of tea and let it warm him, as he drank the bitter liquid. “Drink your tea.” 

Potter snorted. “No lemon sherbet?” 

They both winced. 

Once they were done, they relocated to the living room. Potter chatted about his Auror work, about the paperwork and the boring cases. Severus observed him from the corner of his eye, the boy was picking on the hairs on his hand, realigning his glasses, shuffling his feet. Would it be so terrible to have Potter stop by occasionally? To chat to him, as if he was friend? But then the boy would marry the Weasley girl and his visits would dwindle to nothing, hurting Severus more. 

Perhaps he could have at least this summer with him. 

“Well, enough about my work!” Potter brushed a hand through his hair. “Tell me you’ve signed the contract.”

Severus rolled his eyes, but fetched the contract and passed it to Potter.

“You’ve signed!” the boy threw his fist in the air triumphantly. He grinned, like he’d caught the Snitch. 

“What would be required of me now?”

“Here, wait a minute,” Potter searched his pockets and produced a book. He waved his wand and it grew in size. “We’ll go by the order of you think is best, but we must do all recipes in here.” 

Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage was the book Potter gave to him. It was new and clearly unused. What did the brat do with his old book? Probably tossed it in the trash and then forgot about it. He suppressed an angry retort.

“The book contains thirty three potions recipes. If we’ll do three at the time, we’ll need to meet eleven times, for you to give me the needed recipes. I will then forward them to the potions tester the publisher hired and tell you their results.”

This would ensure he saw Potter at least once a week. 

“That’s satisfactory. What Potioneer will they hire to test the potions?”

“Last I heard, it was Zabini.”

“Ah, Blaise,” Severus leaned back on the armchair, relief flooding his senses. 

Zabini was a very good student in Potions. He paid attention, was meticulous with ingredients, had a good sense of timing. Not much of a creative streak, but he made up for it by applying himself correctly. The boy had nursed somewhat of a crush on him, in his later Hogwarts years, Blaise wouldn’t try to do him harm. 

“He was really enthusiastic about taking the job, once he heard it was your book. And before you tell me off about secrecy, his mom is about to wed one of the publishers, so I didn’t tell him, he found out on his own.”

Potter scowled. “He wanted to collect the recipes from you himself.” 

“You refused?” asked Severus somewhat surprised.

Potter ears went red and his brows furrowed. Severus thought he looked rather lovely like that. “He had seven years with you as his head of the House, why is he trying to get more? Of course, I refused him. Suspicious bloke, if you ask me.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “He’s rather typical Slytherin, with the usual belief in pureblood rhetoric, and an unusually high level of vanity. Neither he nor his mother were Marked, you realise.” 

Potter grunted. 

He left, promising to come back for the first three potions recipes. Severus was rather pleased by how things have been turning out. He went to the village to shop, buying himself biscuits, in case he’d have to give Potter tea again. He apparated to the nearest muggle town and found the Pet Supply shop. The mouse toys they displayed were rather pricey, but he planned on making his own. He purchased a little catnip, Banger’s usual dry food and even four packs of wet food, because he was feeling charitable. He’d have to ration it smartly of course. 

At home, he found a colorful piece of cloth and transfigured it into a mouse toy. He stuffed the mouse toy with the catnip he purchased and charmed it to move in random patterns, avoiding the kitchen, and high places. He worked on the mouse in his bedroom, with the door closed. When he was finished he presented Banger with the toy, letting it run around before the cat. 

The cat’s entire posture went on high alert, his whiskers twitching. In a second the cat pounced after the toy. Severus smiled, satisfied with the result. Banger needed the exercise and Severus needed time to brew and now that he signed the contract, the time to compose recipes for the book. 

The sudden cooling of the weather hit him unaware. It was spring, so the central heating was off and the weather outside was dreadfully chilly. He kept all the fireplaces in the house magically burning, but it didn’t save him from the low temperatures. The cold produced an unpleasant prickling sensation in his muscles, it was painful, it made his mobility worse. He had to be extra careful not to botch a potion he was working on. The warming charms didn’t help, as they had to be renewed hourly and Severus’ magic was all focused on producing a decent potion and couldn’t be spared on other means.

He was in a sour mood, after a long brewing session, finally in front of a warm fire and exhausted after a long day. He wanted to have tea, but he’d had no energy to do anything but stare at the fire. Banger was chewing on his toy mouse and sitting on his lap. His stomach rumbled. He had not prepared anything for dinner, he only fed Banger and then collapsed here.

He summoned a parchment he was working on, the first three potions for his book. He tested each formula with his own money, anxious to have perfect results. He planned on including five additional potions in the book, the one’s he had sixth years brew while he was a Potions Master at Hogwarts. 

His stomach rumbled again. His right knee was numb, he could barely stand. He closed his eyes, prepared to go to sleep here, on the sofa in front of a fire, when he felt his wards disturbed. He tensed, his wand jumping in his hand. A knock sounded. He ignored it. A knock sounded again, more insistent this time. 

“It’s Harry, Snape! Open the door!” 

After a moment of relief, Severus flicked his wand and the door let the guest in. 

“Good evening,” Potter had his hands full of bags. 

Severus scowled darkly. “What do you want?”

“Ah, pleasant greeting, I feel you’re happy to see me,” Potter winked. 

“If it’s about the book, I’ve got the needed formulas right here. Take them and get out,” said the older man through his teeth. He was not about to stand and make a fool of himself in front of Potter. 

“If something wrong? You’re rather pale. Have you had supper?” Potter went right into the kitchen. Snape heard him shuffling there with his bags. “I’ve brought a meat pie and some salads,” yelled the brat from the kitchen. “I was hoping we could eat together?”

A pleasant aroma of meat pie reached him from the kitchen. Potter had brought him dinner. Warm sensation filled his stomach, although he hadn’t eaten yet. He often wondered what his life would be like with a partner who would be willing to tolerate his moods and his work. Someone who could take care of supper when he was not feeling well. In his imagination he had two or three good years, before that nameless someone got bored with him and moved on, but he imagined those couple of years before that happened to be tolerable. Of course if it was Potter… He suppressed the yearning the thought produced. 

“Well, are you coming?” Potter burst from the kitchen with a towel wrapped around his neck, covering the front of his Auror robes. “Sorry, couldn’t find an apron.”

“I’ll come in a moment.”

Potter eyed him suspiciously. He nodded quickly and stepped out of the room. 

Severus pushed Banger on the floor and made an attempt to stand. His right knee buckled beneath him and hit the coffee table. He gritted his teeth. There was nothing to grab on to, his right arm felt shaky and inadequate. He attempted it again, with more force to propel him from soft cushions. He was successful in standing, but he was now using two hands to lean on coffee table. He stood, bent like this, taking a breath, then attempted to straighten himself. He walked a few steps dragging his right leg, he knew the kitchen to be rather chilly, so he cast a warming charm on himself. Unfortunately that led to him losing concentration and stumbling. His arms flapped in the air, searching for purchase, as he was about to fall. 

Strong arms caught him around the torso. For a moment he savoured being caught, how many times had he fallen on his face in this house, after a particularly bad day? A pleasant scent filled his nostrils and he inhaled deeply, feeling the heat flood his cheeks. He jerked away from Potter’s hold. 

“Release me this instant!” 

“If you lean in on me...” 

“I don’t need your help, _ Potter _,” Severus spat the last name, as meanly as he could. 

Curse him seeing how he was about to fall and make a fool of himself. He could already see Potter laughing with his Auror friends at his clumsiness and helplessness. The Great Dungeon Bat reduced to walking with a limp, a fit punishment for his crimes as a Death Eater.

“Yes, I am a Potter,” the boy said softly tight in his ear. 

He then released him and Severus stumbled away, on shaky legs.

“Don’t be a stubborn bastard, Snape, let me help you,” said the boy, as if pained. “You can barely stand.” 

“I can stand just fine,” and he could. “After you,” he swept his hand towards the kitchen.

Potter cast a dubious glance at him, but wordlessly went into the kitchen. It took a little more time, but Severus followed him after, careful to keep his balance in check. The table was set, with a meat pie in the middle and different salads in plastic containers around it. The nearest seat was occupied with his cat, that was taking a tentative sniff at the salad. 

“No,” Severus pushed the cat off the chair. The cat gave him the most offended look. He ignored it. “You’ve already had your stomach full.” 

“Meow!” 

“I said no.” 

He sat on the chair as smoothly as he could. Potter glanced, clearly amused, from the older man to the cat. 

“We could give him the leftovers from the pie,” he offered. 

“Potter, no. Banger is fat. He’s been feeding on wildlife, but mostly the trash bins from the village for far too long. He had probably starved and then eaten too much of the waste he found, lying on the streets. His metabolism suffered because of it. He has developed an unhealthy relationship with the food he eats, nothing you give him is too much. He is going to gorge himself on it until he is sick, trust me, I’ve tested it. He needs to be on a diet. Or hunt for food, giving him the needed exercise.” 

“Um.. Kinda unfair to the wildlife he hunts, don’t you think?”

“I am aware,” Severus admitted after a pause. “If I catch you feeding him, I going to stuff your wand down your throat. Or other orifice.”

“Feed the master, not the cat, got it,” Potter said, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Brat,” Snape almost caught himself smiling. 

The pie sated his hunger, and the salad was most welcome. He didn’t bother with cooking anything as involved as pie, and his dinners had been simple affair. The food was delicious and he found himself shooting Harry long looks, a little too long to be mistaken for casual interest. 

The boy had shadows under his eyes again, but he looked good in the electric light of Snape’s kitchen. His eyes seemed a colder green than usual, giving him a mysterious, otherworldly appearance. His hair was untidy, but Snape wondered how soft it would feel under his palms. Potter’s mouth was shiny with the fat from the pie and looked especially kissable. 

“How did you find my cottage?” 

Potter stretched on the chair, yawning widely. “Wondered when you’d ask. McGonagall mentioned the Headmaster left you something in his will. Edwards told me Dumbledore used to have a cottage here. After you’ve disappeared from Spinner’s End I thought you might have moved to the continent, but then I found out you were doing potions here. I didn’t want to bother you, even though I thought we could perhaps keep in touch, have tea or something stronger from time to time. I... wanted to see you, to talk to you, you have no idea how…” Potter trailed off, staring into the distance. “There was just never the right occasion. Well, until now.”

“Do you expect to be welcome in my home after the book is published?” Snape scoffed.

Potter’s face fell. He nodded to himself, then stood up abruptly to put the kettle on. 

“Why would you seek the company of the man you’ve despised for half your life?” Snape asked, unsure of his footing. 

“The thing is, sir, I was wrong about you all along. Sure, you were horrible to me in school, but I wouldn’t have paid so much attention to it if I haven’t been convinced you were working for the other side. If I’d thought you were uninvolved with Voldemort,” Severus winced at the name and Potter noticed, causing Snape’s face to turn red. 

“As I was saying, if you were just like any other professor, you would simply be a mean teacher to me.”

If Snape didn’t say it now, he never would. “I am the reason your parents died.”

Potter, his back to him, stopped what he was doing. He turned and his lips were pursed, he crossed his arms on his chest.

“I know. I forgive you.”

Severus felt himself stop breathing. He then struggled to take a breath. Yes, Potter forgave him, but could he ever forgive himself for his role in Lily’s death? He couldn’t. He wanted to be absolved, but he simply couldn’t be. Too many mistakes were made, and his mistakes had body count. 

“And it was Voldemort’s fault anyway. Besides, you loved my mother, I wasn’t the only one who had lost her.”

“Not in the way you think,” Snape said covering his eyes.

Potter blinked. His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? ‘Cause I swear if your memories were false, Snape...”

“You cannot falsify memories, when you’re bleeding from a neck wound, Potter. I meant, you imagined my romantic devotion for Lily, where there wasn’t one. I loved your mother, Potter. I was never in love with her.”

“But...”

“She was my only true friend. Imagine, if you were the cause of death of Ms. Granger.”

“But Dumbledore...”

“I think Albus suspected.”

“Oh...”

There was a sharp plastic thud, announcing that the kettle was done. Potter made the tea, being unusually quiet and reserved. Severus got the biscuits he got for Potter out of the cupboard. They drank the tea in silence, and Potter was steadily destroying all of the biscuits on the table, staring off somewhere to Snape’s left. Well, it was an equal exchange, he supposed. 

Before the boy left, he cleaned the kitchen and spent some time petting the cat. He looked at Severus with something akin to disappointment, took Severus’ book notes on parchment and left the house without another word. It was bound to happen someday, he told himself. The boy would see him for what he really was and leave without coming back. He hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. 

The boy had romanticized notions about his love for Lily. Now he knew the truth. Nothing could be done. 

***

Snape didn’t go to the quidditch game that Sunday. He brewed, revised his notes on the book, observed Banger as he played with his mouse, went to the forest for the ingredients. He did not think of Potter, did not lie awake at night thinking of the quiet silence of his house, did not cling to Banger with unusual neediness. And if he did, he blamed it on the cold weather.

***

The Monday Prophet had Potter’s face plastered on front of the page. Apparently, the brat did not listen to orders and went in alone to raid the house of some Dark Arts expert, hoping to catch him unaware. Impetuous brat. The name of the wizard didn’t tell him anything, the person had immigrated from somewhere in Central Asia. Although numerous forbidden artifacts were found, including a pint (!) of Unicorn blood, Potter was now suspended from field work, until his superiors thought him sufficiently remorseful. 

That week he hadn’t seen Potter and he hadn’t expected him to . He did, however, keep another three improved formulas ready, written and examined. The cold was easing up and he did not have to keep the fire going in all the fireplaces in the house. The fire from the cauldron kept him sufficiently warm now and he had been satisfied with the potions he’d made. 

The warm weather meant another thing, though. That he could now, without too much of a problem go to Potter’s match. He wondered if Potter abandoned the task of delivering the book notes for him and would send somebody else to fetch them. He debated staying in the house with Banger. 

“I’ll only see a glimpse of him, anyway,” he told Banger. 

The cat’s intelligent eyes regarded him with polite interest. 

“It’s a pathetic imitation of contact meant to tease more than to satisfy,” he complained to the cat. 

The cat turned on its back, exposing his belly. Severus petted the cat’s belly, absentmindedly. In the end he went. But he might not have bothered. Potter was not in the match, while his team was playing. Severus risked being exposed, but sat in the midst of the general public. He had gathered from gossip on the stands that Potter was suspended from attending Quidditch matches, along with field work. He had no desire to stare at the game, so he slipped from the field and apparated home. 

May came and with it the warm weather. Snape made two more toys for Banger to chase around the house, he even made a stick with a broken quill he had hanging from it, and would occasionally play with the cat. The business was going well enough, he supposed, for spring. Any day the first sunscreen potion order would come in the mail and then he’d be inundated with them. The wizards going on vacation to the warmer continents never forgot sunscreen. 

Potter was missing for second week. Severus didn’t bother hiding his own disappointment from Banger, his sole listener. But on Friday, when he was cooking dinner, a knock sounded. It was Potter, standing there, his face ashen, his hair wilder than before with shadows under his eyes. 

“I’ve brought another pie!” he announced loudly. “Hello, Banger!”

The sight of him alone, soothed the ugly voices whispering in his head. The loneliness he felt, squeezing his ribcage, had eased immediately. The sun felt warmer, the day brighter. Despite the temptation to lock the door in the brat’s face, Severus let him inside the house. He continued with dinner, his back to Potter. The soup was boiling merrily on the stove. He heard Potter moan as he sat, then the chair creak repeatedly as Potter changed positions. 

“Sorry, I didn’t come last week, I had too much paperwork,” the chair squeaked. “They dropped tons of unfinished reports on me and I’ve had to write them from memory, I don’t think I slept at all these two weeks, there are at least fifty pieces of evidence I have to file papers for,” a groan and another squeak. “They’ve been “shortcuting” the confiscation of prohibited items too, not making proper documents for a dozen of items. I mean, I didn’t know the place was such a mess. We need a new head of department, that would make sure the place runs smoothly. After Kingsley left, the discipline dropped,” a sniff and a particularly energetic squeak, “Sorry, this is probably completely boring to you.”

“Stop apologizing,” Severus put a steaming plate before the boy. “Eat.” 

If he thought the boy was fidgety before, he was something else now. Twice during dinner, he tried to massage his shoulders and gave up after no success. He lifted his shoulders and moved them back and forth, moved his arms, leaned on the right elbow, then on the left, then on the right again, all the while sighing unhappily. 

“Stop fidgeting,” he hissed in annoyance. 

“Sorry...”

Snape raised a brow. 

“No apologizing, right,” Potter made an attempt to massage his neck before continuing, “I’ve been cramped in one writing position and my muscles are as stiff as a board. I couldn’t even sleep normally, when I’ve had the opportunity.”

Severus paused, he sensed an opportunity arise. “Would you like a massage?” 

Potter’s eyes cleared and he had this hopeful puppyish expression, Severus felt guilty for thinking improper thoughts. “Oh God, would you? I mean, really?”

“I offered, didn’t I?”

Snape watched, as Harry stripped to the waist, revealing a smooth chest, defined by muscles. His eyes caught on two brown nipples, a light dusting of hair around them. His mouth went dry. Potter was beautiful. Lean, compact, well proportioned. He was overcome with desire to taste the muscles of Potter’s stomach, to trace the dark line of hair that led beneath his trousers. The boy illuminated the room. He stood in the dim light of his living room, like the creature from another world, Severus half expected him to sprout wings any moment. 

He transfigured the coffee table into a stretcher and waited for the boy to get comfortable. Harry turned his back to him, and Severus was relieved to be spared of that trusting green gaze. The boy’s back had handful of freckles and birthmarks, he would trace them covetly, so that the brat wouldn’t take notice. 

He couldn’t be too reverent now. Nor as slow and languid as he wanted, he must be efficient and focused. He assessed the field of work, feeling Potter’s muscles under his hands. The boy was stiff, tense, but his skin was cashmere soft. His shoulder had locked up, Potter moaned when he applied pressure there. 

Severus worked from his neck to his lower back, down and down, until he stopped before a perky bottom. He resisted the urge to take Potter’s arse in his hands to feel it thoughoroly. He went back to Potter’s shoulders. 

Potter groaned deeply, making the tips of Snape’s fingers feel it. Severus catalogued the sound, submitted it to his memory to be conjured at will, when the night was darkest and the bed loneliest. He couldn’t resist, but to put his hands through Potter’s hair, under the guise of massaging his scalp. His hair was bouncy and silky to his touch. 

He brought a hand to his nose and inhaled deeply. Potter’s scent lingered there. A jolt of arousal went through his system, a reaction he was trying to avoid. He thought of a thousand unpleasant things and it helped to clear his head. But nothing could dampen the effect of Potter, simply lying before him half stripped, trusting and under his power. 

He felt his cheeks burning, his throat parched and his armpits damp, but not from exercise. These were the usual tells, the betrayals of his body, that he was enjoying himself. Brewing an especially challenging potion, reading an interesting book, dueling a worthy opponent. Having sex. Touching Potter, having him moan beneath him, imagining all sorts of things he could be doing to the boy. He suppressed the desire to put his mouth where his hands were. Although he longed to trace Potter’s spine with his longue, watch him squirm and cast him shy glances over his shoulder. 

Enough! Potter would never show his face in this house again, if he even gave a hint of what depravity was in his mind. He would be repulsed if he knew. Enraged, offended, insulted. 

“There,” he said in a hoarse voice. “That should do it.” 

At first Potter didn’t move from the stretcher, then his hand sneaked away and snatched his Auror robe. He sat up, with his robes covering his lap. His face was flushed, his eyes suspiciously bright. The grey pallor to his skin was gone. Severus smirked, satisfied with the result. Unable to stop himself, he commented. 

“Enjoyed yourself?” 

Potter went even redder and squeaked something akin to “Itwasreallynice”. Then he was mumbling goodbyes and out of the door. Severus was forced to chase him with a parchment with his book notes. Outside, the boy was already in his robes, not quite meeting his eyes. In the darkness, his flush was no longer so apparent.

“You forgot this. Or am I no longer writing a book?” 

Potter hand clapped him on the forehead. “Yes! Of course, sorry, it completely slipped my mind,” he took the offered parchment, shrank it, and put it in his pocket. “By the way Blaise tested the potions you gave me the last time. They were perfect! More than perfect, they were twice as potent.” 

Severus hummed, pleased. Potter scurried away, like someone was chasing him. Doubt entered Snape’s mind. Had he been too apparent? Had he given himself away? Could Potter tell he kept himself on the verge of arousal all this time? He had been careful, hadn’t he? He buried his face in his hands and was assaulted with Potter’s scent. 

No longer able to deny himself he found his bathroom and took out his semi erect member. It took just a little relaxation, a small lowering of defences and a fresh memory of the performed massage, to make him fully erect. He closed his eyes and surrendered. 

***

What he hadn’t expected is for the next four weeks to be the most blissful exercise in restraint. He had seen Potter every week, sometimes twice a week and each time he’d given a massage to the brat, trying desperately to hold on to his sanity. The brat never asked outright, he’d simply sigh, rub his shoulder and look at Severus with his big green puppy eyes. Severus would offer, as if reluctantly, and the brat would immediately agree. Paperwork didn’t sit well with him, Snape suspected that Harry had simply tried to escape the parchment confines of the Ministry by visiting him. 

Had the Hero had nowhere to go? Not from his words, from his words he’d met Granger and Weasley over lunch almost every day. He did not mention Ms. Weasley, sparing Severus from jealous sulking. This close to the boy, he learned to decipher his ever changing moods. He could tell when the boy wasn’t sleeping well, by the shadows under his eyes, him picking at the hair on his arms and twiddling his thumbs. Just the little tics, they spoke of the boy subtly trying to make a home of his body again, after a particularly bad dream. Lately, the boy cast long looks at him with carefully blank expression, as if he was trying to hide something. He took notice. He wondered what could it possibly mean. 

Then there was, of course, the work side of things. Potter took his recipes and always told him of the Blaise’s opinion on the improved formula, however, twice he expressed his doubt about Zabini’s character. 

“He’s just so eager to meet you, I don’t like it,” Potter had said.

Snape explained that there wasn’t any bad blood spilled between Blaise’s family and him, to which Potter only frowned and pursed his lips. June was coming around the bend, the warm summer to spare him from the cold, to spare his nerve ending the pain of cold wind and springs ever changing moods. 

Severus had stumbled only once before Potter, only once since that bad day in April. Only once. But what ‘once’ it had been - Severus flying through the air, his teacup shattered, injuring his knee and drawing blood from his palm where he scraped the sharp edge of the table. He hissed, like a snake, and wanted to crawl under the sofa, to save him from humiliation. Potter was at his side in a moment, helping him get up, fussing over him. Severus couldn’t stand it. He snapped at the boy. He seethed and insulted and even mentioned the boy’s father. But Potter hadn’t left, his face only glowed with that stubborn willfulness. Even Banger came from where he was hiding, meowing circles around Severus as he massaged his knee. 

But during the last days of spring, Potter surprised him with the change in their routine. 

“I’m going away for a vacation,” Potter said, and there was that determined gleam in his eyes. “Blaise if going to come and pick up your book notes for a couple of weeks.”

Snape did not say “I’ll miss your presence.” He did not say “You’ll ruin me by your absence, I can already feel it.” He did not toss his mug of tea on the floor, as he wanted too. Did not reach out to the boy and plead with him to come back. He did not. 

“Going somewhere sunny?” he asked without inflection. 

Potter inclined his head, like a cat. “You could say so.” 

As the next month trickled by, he made do with the cards he had been dealt. The nightmares that plagued him returned. Lulled by Potter’s presence, they had hibernated in his mind, like wild animals in winter. Now, they’ve awakened hungry, all claws and teeth and they tore at him every other night. 

Instead of Potter coming to his home, he had a new guest to entertain on occasion. Zabini came to his house, intent to charm away at his defences. He has complimented his potions, and has gifted him with a bottle of wine, drawing Severus into a conversation. He hadn’t minded the company, but he hadn’t quite enjoyed it. Blaise and him were birds of too different social circles, the boy was too young for one to gossip about the people Severus knew, too wealthy to understand his daily struggles with money, too handsome and charming for any air of humility. But, as Slytherins, there was a ground of mutual understanding between them. 

With some amusement Snape discovered Blaise had attempted to flirt with him. He pointedly ignored it, it wasn’t in his interest to have the rejection of boy’s advances affect his grades on the formulas in his book. 

Most of the evening he spent picturing Potter on the beach somewhere as sunny as Greece, or perhaps Italy, swimming in the turquoise waters and sipping on cocktails with the Weasley girl. Of course, the girl would be wearing as little as possible, proudly displaying what nature had given her. How could Snape compete with that? He had never even passed for tolerable and he had never cared about it before. Not as much as he did now. 

He wasn’t completely alone and desolate. Banger slept in his bed, offering him comfort after another nightmare. He had drawn Severus from his lab to eat, meowing incessantly, demanding to be fed. He had lost another one and a half centimeter around his waist, making his owner surprisingly proud. 

And still, he missed Potter. Missed that cheeky grin, missed the mindless chatter, the sound of his voice when he talked to the cat, the cashmere soft skin of his back and his scent lingering on Snape’s hands. Missed the light, the fire, burning in that green gaze, the strength of him, always giving and not stained by the cruelty of the world around him. 

Harry. The pallet of greens and reds, of stubborns and generosity, of anger and hope. The only one who had ever reached for him without any agenda, who lighted a spark that grew into a fire, that melted the iron of his mask. The mask of indifference, masking a thousand paper cuts that shaped him. Of wounds that never healed.

So when Severus discovered a tanned and bearded, and rough looking Potter on his doorstep with an enormous green rucksack, he was momentarily speechless. Potter grinned at him handsomely and he had to restrain himself from reaching out and pulling him into his arms. 

“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in, sir?”

Wordlessly, he let the boy in. 

“Where, pray tell, have you been?” and with whom, he wanted to add. 

“Away,” Potter waved his hand vaguely. “That’s not the important part.”

“Fine, Potter. I’ll play. What’s the important part?” the boy had only grinned in response. He put his rucksack down and opened it. While he was searching for something there, Severus observed him with hungry eyes. The boy wore shorts that exposed his muscled calves, a shirt that exposed his arms and his neck, that had little cuts on them here and there. The boy obviously had been traveling somewhere tropical. 

Potter pulled out a box, the size of a shoebox and held it out. His right foot was tapping on the floor, impatiently, but there was no snitch to be caught here. Snape took the box and inspected it. A strong preservative charm was on the box, it was imbued with magic to keep something fresh. Maybe some ingredient. 

Snape’s heart beat faster. “Was it terribly rainy?” 

“Quite,” Potter was cleaning his glasses to keep his poker face. Severus wasn’t fooled. 

He opened the box, and sure as he suspected, there it was. Nocturno impetu. Delivered straight from the magical part of Amazonia, full of beasts that gave children nightmares and made adults shudder. The only plant that would heal the lining of nerves in the human body, if used correctly, that is. 

Horrified with himself, he found his nose sniffing wetly and his eyes beginning to get unmistakably wet. Snivellus they had called him. Wordlessly he left the room and went to his lab. Compose yourself, you fool, he told himself. Potter followed his steps, chattering about. 

“God, you weren’t kidding when you said it would be a suicide mission to go there alone. I almost ended up being something’s dinner or lunch a dozen times,” he said to Snape’s back. “The weather is not so bad when you get used to it. Warmer than here, sure, more humid. But the forest itself is beautiful. Really wish you could see it.” 

Severus put the box on his lab table. “Then why did you not invite me along? Why did you decide to selfishly go alone, putting yourself in untold danger, like the complete dunderhead..”

“You’re mad,” Potter muttered, his eyes big. “I knew you’d be mad.” 

He imagined Potter in a forest, danger coming from all sides and terror seized him. “What were you thinking?!” he slammed his hand on the desk, making Potter jump. “Your complete disregard to personal safety betrays your complete lack of common sense! Are you arrogant enough to believe you’re absolutely invincible? Do you really think yourself so powerful you can walk into a forest full of beasts intent on having you for dinner, not to mention the poisonous plants, and walk through it as if its nothing? Do you think your notoriety...”

“I did not do it for fame!” Potter cried, throwing his hands up. “I did it for you!”

The anger drained from him, leaving only terror. “Did you think if it would be worth it? Dying for a man who murdered your mentor? Who was the cause of your parents death? What would they think of you, risking your life so I could walk without a limp?” 

“You know well enough it’s more than just your leg! Did you think I didn’t notice how afraid you are of the cold?”

“Potter...”

“Say thank you. Just,” Potter cried anguished. “Be a normal human being for once!”

Snape’s patience snapped. He threw a jar in Potter’s direction, the boy ducked. “I’m worried about your safety, you fool!” he roared. 

Harry blinked, comprehension flooding his face. His eyes gleamed a witchy green in the lab’s lighting. Severus’ gut clenched with horror at almost betraying himself completely. He took a deep breath, attempting to compose himself. His hands were shaking.

“I’d like to be here, while you brew the potion with the plant,” Potter said to him. “But first, I would really appreciate some tea right now.” 

Snape snorted. 

They had their tea, while Severus expressed his gratitude to the brat, as reluctantly as he could. Potter started the tale of his journey and gradually continued it in Severus’ lab, while he brewed the potion with Nocturno impetu. He sat in a chair and told Severus of the wild beasts he saw, of venomous snakes he had to avoid, of guides who followed him through the forest. It was reassuring to know the brat hadn’t been completely alone. When he ended his tale, he went away to rest, and Severus continued brewing. He finally finished at midnight, the potion cooled and ready. He poured it in a jar and went searching for Potter. 

He found the brat in his own bed, lying on the covers, sleeping peacefully, with a lone charmed candle illuminating his face. The boy must have sensed he preferred candles to electricity in his bedroom. He let himself observe for a moment, the line of Potter’s bushy brows, the shadows of his long eyelashes, the thrilling curve of his cupid’s bow. The cat lying on the pillow next to his face opened his eyes and jumped from the bed, waking Potter up. The brat blinked owlishly, awakening something fierce and tender in Severus’ heart. 

“I forgot to feed you,” he said to Banger. 

“I fed him,” Potter said, his voice rough from sleep. 

The familiar anger filled him, his eyes shot to the cat, checking for a sign of distress. “I told you not to feed my cat!” 

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen you feed him, I know how much he has for dinner.”

“Did you put some water in the bowl with dry food, so he drinks? Did you resist giving him seconds?” 

“Yes and yes,” Potter put his glasses on and looked at him. “Is the potion ready?”

Snape sat on the bed next to Harry. He hadn’t expected the brat to pay attention to how he feeds his cat. “Yes. I can drink it now, it would work overnight, the results would be in the morning.”

The boy gave him a tight lipped smile. “I’m knackered. Can I stay here overnight? I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Severus hated himself, but his first instinct was to offer Potter to share a bed. He willed it away. “My sofa is not comfortable place to rest,” he said, still nudging Potter to another solution. 

“Do you mind sharing a bed?” 

Snape’s mouth went dry. He wet his lips, Potter’s eyes followed the movement. The boy worried his bottom lip, looking at him uncertainty. Potter searched the most dangerous forest on Earth for the cure for his condition. He risked his life for Snape’s comfort. Severus resigned himself to sharing a bed with Potter.

“After all you’ve done, wouldn’t it be ungrateful for me to say no?”

“Um...”

“The bed is large enough for two.”

He took the vial out and uncorked it. Potter’s eyes widened behind his eyeglasses. He saluted to the boy and downed the potion. It rushed through his gut, warming him like a shot of whiskey. A magic wave descended through his limbs and covered his eyes in white haze. The effects of the potion itself took time, but he could already tell the formula was potent. 

He undressed with his back to Potter, slipping on his nightgown. He had to light a dozens of candles, because the fog in his eyesight prevented him from seeing clearly. When he turned, Potter was already beneath the covers, his clothes neatly stacked on the nightstand. 

A tantalising view of bare shoulders attracted Snape’s attention. The arch of Potter clavicle had given the man not one or two, but many heady thoughts, tempting him to taste it. He put out the all candles at once, flicking his wand and lay beside Potter. None of his one night stands had turned into long term lovers, Severus had never spent the night with any of them. No matter how tired he was. It seemed intimate in the way sex wasn’t, a lie between two people who’d never meet again, a soft illusion of intimacy. He had wanted it, craved it, but could only accepted it from someone he would be able to trust. 

Today Potter crossed a line. From a casual acquaintance in his life, Severus had become someone important to him. He had been important enough to risk his life for. Yes, there was the book, but that had been a peace offering. Meant to pacify old grudges. This was earth shattering. Now that he knew the brat regarded him so highly, he was afraid of losing that regard. Should he speak softer now? Avoid rousing Potter’s anger? Should he be less of the person he was? 

He wouldn’t even try it. 

He was who he was and damned Potter would need to accept it. He stared at the ceiling and felt his limbs relax under the potion’s command, melting into the bed covers. Potter asked him something, but he was already slipping into the dream realm. He saw his mother making him stuffed cabbage rolls, the only thing she liked to make on the rare occasion that she’d cook. He helped her out, rolling the meat and rice into the cabbage, she smiled at him her tender smile, that held the bitterness of her position. But in the dream the edges blurred and there was no resentment in him, born out of her neglect. Sometimes the days had been like this, busy with cleaning and cooking, done once in a blue moon. She pinched him on the nose and told it to grow even bigger, he giggled. She told him she liked that boy of his and he felt the painful relief of that moment wash over him, causing his heart to ache.

He woke to find his heart still aching in his chest. It was the middle of the night and Potter was in throes of a nightmare. The cords in his neck bulged with an effort, his head thrown back, eyes moving madly. Severus moved his hand until it rested on the boy’s chest and shook him. The boy woke up, panting madly. 

“My scar hurts, Merlin’s balls, not again, I can’t do this again -”

He was rubbing Potter’s chest soothingly. “Breathe,” Severus instructed. “Yes, like so.”

“He’s gone. Vanquished completely and irreversibly. Look at my Mark,” he rolled the sleeve of his nightgown and shown his lifeless Mark to the boy. Potter’s eyes stared blearily, his hands coming up to trace the mark. Snape shivered under the touch. Banger was resting between them, unbothered by Potter’s nightmare. 

“Sometimes when I dream these dreams, I wake up and it’s all I can do not to firecall Hermione and Ron, to tell them he’s back again and that I know it, can feel it -”

“He’s never coming back, Potter.”

“You can call me by my name, you know,” said Potter quietly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His fingers hesitated, then went over his scar. The boy rubbed it energetically, then ruffled his hair.

“Anything out of the ordinary?” Snape asked equally quiet now.

“No,” Potter whispered.

“Then go to sleep... Harry.”

In the morning Snape awoke to a new body, but the same old soul inhabiting it. He touched his wand and his right hand, and surprisingly, could feel the ridges of an ornament of his wand handle. His right foot, too, could feel the texture of his socks and moved naturally. He savored the feeling, moving his thumb over the furrowed ornament, moving his toes and checking his balance. The feeling in his right sight of the body, previously mildly numb, returned in full force. No longer was he one half of previous Dungeon Bat, he could feel fully. He discovered all of this, while Potter fidgeted nervously, looking at him from the bed. 

“Well? Is it better?” he asked impatiently. 

A wave of warmth traveled up and down Snape’s body. The sheer pleasure of getting his limbs in a proper working order done wonders for his mood. He offered his hand to Potter and he accepted it with a questioning look. 

Snape swept Potter in a waltz, the boy released a shocked laugh, he led Harry in circles around the room, waltzing the boy around and around. Potter was grinning from ear to ear now, his cheeks pink. Severus released him reluctantly. 

“Quite a bit better I would say.”

“Oh, good!”

They returned to their routine of visits once or twice a week, where Potter gathered new formulas for the book. The boy complimented him on his delivery of instructions and additional theoretical material, claiming the dry humor and sarcastic comments reminded him of Half-Blood Prince’s book. Well, Severus, thought, he should hope so, as he wrote both commentaries. 

Potter was no longer on a desk job, he was out in the field again, working long Auror hours, patrolling, and doing raids. He mentioned the eerie disappearance of a six year old child they were investigating. Snape could tell Potter was worried about the girl. Many times, he appeared on his doorstep well past dinner time, working late hours. 

Snape expected to read the resolution in the papers, but he found out what happened to Auriga Graham from Harry himself. He appeared late in the night on Severus’ doorstep with a haunted look in his eyes. They had discovered the girl in the basement of her grandmother’s house, chained to the metal bed like an animal. The grandmother Alchiba Graham was one of the Dark Lord’s staunchest supporters and she had recently discovered that her granddaughter had a muggle father. With the girl’s mother dead she took charge of the girl’s future, in her words, until she found out the girl’s father was a muggle. She didn’t know what to do with the girl then but lock her in a basement. 

Potter had been truly shaken by the case, Snape could tell. He appeared depressed, shoulders hunched, a defeated look in his eyes. They appeared before any damage to the girl was done, but Harry couldn’t stay optimistic. He couldn’t fathom how anyone could do this to their family, and yet his own experience with his aunt was also the thing that triggered such a strong response. 

“She called her a freak, can you believe it?” Potter asked, mindlessly rolling the meatball around his plate. 

Severus recalled many Occlumency lessons where he heard Petunia call Potter a freak. He sighed. These scars could never heal. His own marks from his past with the Marauders have never faded, he doubted Potter would ever be over his childhood neglect. 

“We found the father though. He had no idea he had a daughter, apparently Auriga’s mother never told him about the magical world or the pregnancy. After the initial shock passed, he appeared to be really enthusiastic about meeting his daughter.”

“Does he have a means to support a child?” 

That was the wrong thing to say, apparently, as Harry bristled. “Did the Weasleys have enough money for so many? I doubt it, but they’re the happiest family I know,” Potter’s jaw muscles worked, he looked at Severus with the challenge in his eyes. “He may not have much, but he’s a decent bloke, he’d make a great father.”

“I’m not contesting the idea, Potter. I only ask, because the Ministry has stipulations for adoption by muggle relatives.” 

Potter blinked, astounded. “Oh! I didn’t think about that.” The boy looked at him, opened his mouth then closed it. He didn’t finish his meal. Instead he cast long, sullen looks at Severus as he cleaned the dishes. Snape waited. 

Then he spoke up, finally. “I don’t think I can sleep alone tonight.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. 

“After today, I know the nightmares will be unbearable,” Potter said anguished. He rubbed his eyes behind the glasses. “I don’t think I can face them alone.”

Was Potter offering to spend another night in his bed? Impossible. And yet... here they were. Where was the Hero’s girlfriend, he wondered? Possibly away, playing Quidditch. But it was a temptation, far greater than the previous one. For he knew every time Potter slept in his bed, it would chip away at Snape’s resolve not to touch him. Even now those green eyes and that soft mouth tempted him. He wanted to touch the boy again, but he didn’t have an excuse for another massage. He wanted to smell Harry on his hands, that mix of sweat and something just Harry, that made his blood race in his veins, that made the colors around him brighter, that raised of wave of erotic euphoria in him. 

But that was not what Harry was seeking. The boy wanted comfort and Snape was grateful for an opportunity to offer it to him. From the first time he had reached out to him, on his hospital bed, he solely had commanded the soft animal of Severus’ body. It only wanted to curl around Potter and guard him from his demons. 

“I’ll retire to bed at ten,” was all he said to the boy. 

True to his fashion, Snape undressed with his back to Potter, although he could swear he felt the heavy gaze of the boy between his shoulder blades. When he turned, once again, the boy was under the covers. He had books to read, so he settled on the bed, with Banger on his lap. Soon enough he heard Potter’s soft snoring fill the room. He read the periodicals and composed the last of his formulas for the book, when he heard unmistakable signs of distress. 

Pulling Banger from his lap he reached for Potter and rubbed his back soothingly. The boy calmed. When he released him, the boy began whining in his sleep, moving restlessly. Pushing Banger to the other side of the bed, so there was no space between himself and Potter, he circled his arm around the boy and whispered calming nonsense in his ear. Once again the boy settled. They were touching almost from head to toe and he felt the smell of the boy fill his nostrils. He inhaled deeply, as if savouring the clean mountain air. 

The boy was still rigid in his arms, but he relaxed gradually and in the span of a few minutes, he was a picture of sweet dreams. Releasing the boy only to extinguish the candles, he settled on the bed again, with his arms around Harry. His heart beat at an odd rhythm. It seemed to race in one moment, when he felt their position the sharpest, and beat slowly, when he concentrated on feeling the moment with all the gratitude he felt. 

He could never imagine a future where he could hold Potter like this night after night, but it was what he was doing right now. Imagining a future where his breath disturbed the silky hair at the nape of Potter’s neck. Where he could feel the boy’s heartbeat, the most selfless, brave heart beating and filling Snape with a terrifying realisation (_ he’s alive _). Where his feet were warmed by Potter’s body, radiating heat like an oven. 

He lay there quietly, not ready to go to sleep and miss the moment’s charm. Whatever awaited him in the future, he could have this. Right now, his arms full of sleeping boy, a boy who shined brighter than the sun. He breathed and drank the minutes greedily, committing them to his memory. Allowing the moment to illuminate the dark corners of his mind, and cast out his demons. Sleep claimed him. 

Waking up with his arms full of Potter had been less dreadful than he anticipated. The boy hadn’t tensed upon waking, he simply yawned and stretched, and jumped from the bed. By the time Severus came to the kitchen Harry had already made breakfast and was smiling shyly at him. Snape fed the cat, enduring the constant meowing. Banger was almost at his ideal weight. The chubby cat jumped on the kitchen counter and tried to steal the fried sausages. Potter patiently picked the beast up and set it back down on the floor. The situation repeated with the table. 

“Maybe one small piece of a sausage -” Potter started. 

“No,” Snape cut him off. 

“Brutal.” 

“Don’t tell me how to treat my cat, Potter. Especially not before I’ve had my coffee.” 

“It’s Harry. And you’re grumpy in the morning.”

Severus glared at him. He’d had an entire night of sleep uninterrupted by nightmares. He was rather in a good mood, but tried to mask it, waking up with Potter made him feel vulnerable, his emotions threatened to spill over the glass jar of him. He felt as transparent as one too.

They had breakfast with the Prophet detailing Auriga Graham’s case. Snape skimmed the contents and passed the newspaper to Potter. In companionable silence they finished their breakfast and went their ways. Before he could say goodbye to Potter, the boy surprised him with a quick peck on the cheek. He hadn’t the time to react before Harry was out the door. He rubbed his cheek, still feeling the soft lips that had pressed there. He smiled.

One more week and the book was finished. The last potions were tested, the editor’s approval was given, the book went on to be printed. Potter told him they should celebrate the occasion but Severus wouldn’t trust the book to be actually published, before he had seen it with his own eyes on the shelves of Flourish and Blotts. That was how he ended up in Diagon Alley, on a Friday, standing before the book shop. 

It was there.

There was a group of sixth year and seventh year students, buying the book. It had been recommended to Hogwarts potions curriculum and the book apparently made it to Slughorn’s class. This would boost his sales, Severus realized. He took one book from the shelf and skimmed the pages. He couldn’t believe it, there in a small font, it said _Severus Snape’s_ _N.E.W.T level potions_. He paid for a dozen copies and exited the shop, the feeling decidedly surreal. He included some theory in the book, one whole chapter on the right preparation of ingredients, five new formulas and now it was published. He felt like any second now the book would be recalled, the publishers would realize their mistake and proclaim him a persona non grata for the publishing world. 

This is how Blaise found him, in an alley behind the bookshop, staring at the brick wall and trying to breathe. The boy smirked at him handsomely and leaned on the wall he used to support himself.

“Sign me a copy, sir?” 

Severus rolled his eyes. “Mr. Zabini.”

“I’m quite happy to see the book published, as I’ve brewed every new formula in it. All of them were quite an improvement on Borage’s selection. I’m quite impressed sir, I must say. What that brilliant mind of yours couldn’t do! The sky’s the limit.” 

Blaise produced a quill from somewhere and Severus signed the copy of the book that Zabini had bought for himself. He gave the book back and Zabini’s hand came to rest on his own. With some surprise Severus registered the boy coming close and then he was being kissed. 

Before he could react to the kiss, a female voice exclaimed “Oh!” and he shoved Zabini’s face away from his own. He was about to read Blaise an angry tirade, when his face fell on the people who had intruded on their privacy. 

It was the Golden Trio themselves, with a very red looking Weasley and flustered Granger. Potter’s face however was not red, nor flustered. He was pale, lips drawn thin, eyes throwing daggers. 

“Let’s leave them to it,” he spat in a hard, unforgiving voice. 

“Come on, Hermione,” the Hero took his friend by the elbow and all three of them disappeared from the alley.

Severus didn’t remember what he’d said to Zabini or how he got home. Harry Potter’ angry gaze followed him everywhere, when he tried to cook himself some lunch, he almost burned himself twice. In the end he sank to the floor, by the stove, the tone of Saviour’s voice still ringing in his ear. It seemed Potter was not as tolerant towards homosexuals as Severus had thought. 

Banger came out of nowhere and climbed onto Snape’s lap. He hugged the cat close to him, feeling the little heart beat against his fingers was a comfort like no other. Banger didn’t protest, letting Snape pet him and hold him close. At least he had his cat. The cat licked his fingers, grooming him in his own way and started purring.

True to Snape’s suspicions Harry didn’t show up in his cottage the following week, nor the week after that. The book was finished and Potter didn’t have to take new formulas from him, so he didn’t have an excuse for a visit. He met Blaise and Draco in a posh muggle restaurant to celebrate the publishing of the book. There he found out that Potter’s circle had been very supportive of same sex couples and Harry himself was no homophobe. 

The news brought relief and disappointment. He had been under the impression he and Potter were beginning to grow very close, but the brat wouldn’t visit him now that the book was finished. That meant he severely misjudged his relationship with Potter. Perhaps he had been motivated by guilt to find Nocturno Impetu for him. Perhaps it was perfectly ordinary to accept massages from strangers in the boy’s circles. Or sleep in one bed for comfort. 

With the book published Severus now received quite a few angry letters demanding him to pull his book from the shelves, hurling insults at him and convinced they knew of his true loyalty. He arranged for the letters of that kind to be delivered to his publisher and sorted there. There were few praises of his book too. He didn’t dwell on them too deeply. 

The Potions Guild had written him a letter, where they apologised for the earlier inconvenience and accepted him back in their midst. His colleagues wrote him letters congratulating him on his first publication. Flourish and Blotts were ready to publish his next book, and with a membership in the Guild he could now patent the potions he had invented. 

It was all rather idyllic. The money from the book had begun trickling in. Some Bulgarian publishers were translating the book, he’d had a good reputation with the Potions Masters there. All was well, except for Potter. 

He hadn’t seen him in two weeks, which might have been an eternity for all it did to his nerves. Sometimes he wished to throw himself at the walls with the hopelessness of it all and howl at the moon. He had began dreaming about Albus again. About Charity. His limbs were numb no more, he couldn’t blame it on his ailments, but he was… suffering.

Suffering Potter’s absence. 

Of course, he read about him in paper. He’d even sneaked into a couple of Quidditch matches, but Potter was no longer playing in them. Snape understood why, they presented no challenge for the Hero. There were no rumours of a wedding, although Snape opened the paper dreading it every day. He knew there would be, eventually. Ginevra was rumoured to be on leave after an altercation with a player from the opposing team. Perhaps Potter had no time to connect with his acquaintances now that his girlfriend was in town. 

He missed Potter’s green eyes, the clear, honest gaze of them. He missed Harry’s shy smiles, his toothy grin, his nervous ticks. He missed the boy fidgeting while he was cooking, missed the sound of his voice. His chest had been carved hollow, he was gutted like a fish, for he had begun to realise Potter would not return to him. 

Another week trickled by. He had patented his formula Drought for effects of Cruciatus curse. The Prophet even made a small note on it, on the second page. He got a letter from St. Mungo’s requesting for a sample to test it. This was beyond lucky. 

And yet he still thought of Potter. 

He was returning from the village with a basket on his arm, when he felt his wards disturbed. Hope surged into him. Perhaps Potter had finally returned. But he didn’t find a single soul in his garden, raising his alarm. Potter would not disturb his home and try to break in. He put his basket on the ground and took out his wand. 

He felt goosebumps rise on his skin at the near presence of danger. He could tell something was wrong. He opened the door. It was quiet inside. His nostrils flared. They were tingling. 

Gas. Poisonous probably.

He slammed the door shut and got away from it, to breathe in the fresh air. Somebody was trying to poison him! To murder him! His heart raced and he felt ill. He cast a few spells, but whoever had filled his house with gas had departed long ago. He felt a pop of apparition outside his gate. 

People in midnight blue uniforms were rushing to him. 

“Sir, we think your house might be under attack!” Ron Weasley had yelled at him. 

Snape rolled his eyes. “You’re late.” 

“You seem to be in one piece,” said an older Auror. 

“No thanks to you,” parried Snape. 

“We need to check the house,” Ron interrupted. 

“Stop! The house is poisoned, there’s deadly gas inside,” Snape said. Even as he said it, something irked at him. He forgot something. Something important. Another pop of apparition sounded. A familiar figure loomed beyond the gates. 

Severus’ eyes widened. 

No. No, no, no. 

He turned towards the house and sprinted inside. The Aurors were yelling behind him, trying to stop him, but he had no time for them. He barged inside the house, looking around wildly. He searched the living room, but found nothing. 

“Banger!” he roared. “Banger!”

Where was the cursed cat? Damn him to hell! He took a handkerchief and held it to his lower face. He searched the kitchen. His vision started to blur, and his throat was suddenly parched. He ran upstairs, breathing heavily. He approached his room, but his extremities had begun to get numb. His vision blurry he spotted a dark spot on his white covers. He grabbed the thing and it appeared to weigh the same as a cat. He rushed downstairs with Banger in his arms. His head spinning madly, he fell down the stairs. 

“Protect the cat!” was his last thought. 

He came to unusually bright light, blinding him. He closed his eyes. He waited a moment, then tried to open them again. The room came into focus. He needed anything, something to drink. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” Potter’s voice said, clearly surprised.

“Water,” he croaked. 

A glass was thrust to his lips. He drank greedily, the memories of the attack coming to him slowly. 

“Banger!” 

Potter’s face became soft and fierce at the same time. “Yes. You scared me to death, disappearing into the house, where Ron said deadly gas had poisoned the air. I don’t think I’ve felt like that since the Battle of Hogwarts. Jesus, Snape, we could have saved your cat for you.”

A deadly pit curled heavily in Snape’s stomach.

“Where’s -” 

“Banger is at Grimmauld Place. He’s broken two vases already, I think he’s bored out of his mind.” A relief that felt even better than the water had a couple moments ago, flooded Severus’ senses. Potter continued: “I found you halfway across the living room, crawling with a cat in front of you. You inhaled quite a bit of gas, both of you. Banger was able to recover more quickly, I don’t think I would’ve been able to be the one to tell you if he hadn’t survived.”

Potter rubbed his eyes, a rueful expression crossing his features. “No, I’m lying. I wouldn’t trust anybody else to tell you.”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

“The wizard that attacked your house has been detained. He stole your address from your publisher,” Potter’s feet kept fidgeting. “It’s my fault, if it weren’t for the book,” the boy picked on the hair on his knuckles. “You wouldn’t be in here.”

Snape dismissed with a: “Bollocks.”

“I’ll need new wards for the house, that is all. You were the one to save my life again, Potter. Although I didn’t imagine you would with the way we parted the last time we saw each other,” he added, eyeing the boy intently. 

Potter’s eyes looked stunned for a moment. “I… Um...Er.”

“Have fulfilled an obligation and provided me with a book. Then you decided to no longer participate in our shameful liaison, isn’t that right?” Snape was unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. 

Potter’s face shuttered, his eyes blazing. “Don’t know why you’d need me for when you have Zabini.”

“Ah, so you do have a problem with wizards who prefer the company of their own sex,” Snape concluded, disappointed. 

“What? No!” Potter cried, raising himself from the chair, he was occupying. 

Harry paced in front of his bed. “I don’t have a problem with gay wizards, Snape. I’ve just been foolish, that is all. I wish you happiness with Zabini, I do. I just don’t understand why him. He’s such a suck-up, all high society manners and fancy robes. Is that really what you like?” 

“What I like is of no importance, tell me why you’ve been angry with me!” Severus raised his voice, losing his patience. 

“I was jealous, alright?!” Harry yelled. 

Silence descended onto the room. 

It was Snape’s turn to be stunned. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Sick hope lurched in his chest. 

“Didn’t me trying to get into your bed clue you in at all? Weren’t all those massages, when I was trying to hide my stiffy, obvious enough?” Harry asked, his face red. “I can’t think about my job, can’t think about my friends, all I want is to return to your bloody cottage and see you again!”

“But,” Snape spluttered. “Miss Weasley -”

The boy sighed and sat on his chair again. “We broke up back before my trip to Amazonia.” 

Severus regarded the boy quietly. He was beautiful, but that was not what drew him to the brat. He was noble and brave, and kind, and thoughtful. He was the one who reached out to Severus time and time again, when no one would. And he had just confessed to being jealous of Zabini. Could he truly have this? 

“I’m twenty years your senior.”

“Zabini is the same age as me!” Harry objected indignantly. “If you’re giving him a chance, you can do the same for me!”

“Potter… Harry. Blaise’s advances were never wanted or encouraged. I confess I did not want to discourage him too boldly, when he was evaluating my potions, but there was nothing between us, save what you saw in the alley.”

Potter’s eyed him hopefully. He looked like a puppy who had just been handed a bone. “So Zabini and you aren’t together?”

“No.” 

Harry grinned. “And you’ve missed me.” 

“I’ve said no such thing,” Severus cut of. 

“Yes, you did. It was clear you were pissed that I haven’t visited you.” 

“Clearly I’m not the only one suffering from gas pois-” 

Severus blinked. Warm hands were upon his shoulders, soft lips against his own. Slowly Potter kissed him, paying attention to his lower lip, his lips attentive and oh, so tempting. Severus’ hand came up to rest on the boy’s jaw and he tilted his head just so to deepen the kiss. His tongue ventured out to taste the boy’s skin, he was rewarded with a moan from Harry. Though his limbs were still heavy, unspeakable lightness surrounded him. He felt like someone turned a switch in his head, opening the blinds to a sunny day, illuminating all the dark corners of his mind. It was an unparalleled sensation. He wanted to take what was offered, to plunge and forget the world with its problems and worries, but he couldn’t. He broke the kiss. Harry didn’t go far, though, leaning his forehead on Severus’ own. They breathed the same air, traitorously close to one another, still. 

“Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?”

Harry placed a soft kiss on his cheek. “Yes.”

“People won’t look favourably on your choice. The rumours alone -”

The boy was shaking his head and his fringe brushed Snape’s eyes. “I don’t care. Really, they can say whatever they want. I’m not looking for a fling either, I’m not really a fling kind of guy. Can I call you Severus?”

“I… Yes,” he said, willing himself not to kiss the boy again. “I’m a possessive man, Harry.”

“Good, me too,” the boy pulled away slightly. He cleared his throat. “I…, Um, I was forced to search your house for evidence.” Severus tensed. “I found a woolen cloak I recognized. You… Er, I think you wore it to my Quidditch matches.” 

Severus felt his whole face catch on fire. “Enjoyed going through my things, did you?” he spat. 

“No! I knew you wouldn’t like it,” the boy replied calmly, looking at him with those clear honest green eyes.

Severus felt his nerves betraying him. He wanted to get away, to hide somewhere that had no eyes as earnest as Potter’s, stripping him to the bone. “You want to know why I visited your matches.” Harry nodded. “I must admit to certain changes in my regard for you, after your visits to St. Mungo’s, during my recovery. I found the articles in newspaper insufficient in informing me about your state of… wellbeing. I wanted to check upon you, so to speak, on my own.”

Harry seemed to take his word for it, eyeing him warmly. Severus breathed a sigh of relief. Someone knocked on the door and Harry jumped from his seat to speak to whoever was disturbing their peace. It turned out to be Auror Weasley, who called Potter away for some work related reason. Looking properly apologetic, Harry said his goodbyes and left Severus alone to think. 

Harry returned in the evening with an animal carrier. Severus couldn’t help but be excited to see his cat. He asked Harry to ward the place, so the cat wouldn’t get out. Potter opened the carrier and Banger immediately jumped out to explore the room. Snape watched him him sniff the corners of the room and waited. Finished with the exploring, the cat jumped on the bed and Severus’ hands were there to bring the cat possessively to his chest. 

Potter had stayed with him as he had dinner, chatting about his Auror business. Half of what the boy was telling him surely would be top secret information. When Severus asked if he isn’t afraid of being overheard, Potter winked at him and assured him he had warded the room. Severus rolled his eyes at the confident air and the cheek of the boy. 

Still, it felt good to be trusted. 

He was released from the hospital three days later. He didn’t feel any adverse effects from the gas and was at a peak health. The attack made its way to papers, the Prophet ran an article on the front page with his old schoolbook photo, scowling from its pages. He was surprised to receive a concerned letter from Minerva, although the letters from Draco and Narcissa had been somewhat expected. He knew it was a matter of time before Harry brought Banger back home. He felt guilty that the cat had almost died because of him and wanted to make it up to the beast by giving him treats. Surely a few won’t fatten him up too much . 

When he was home, he went through his pantry and threw out everything that wasn’t tightly sealed. It might have absorbed the gas, he didn’t want to be the fool who got himself poisoned because of carelessness. He went through his mail and was pleased to discover a few galleons from his book sales. When the evening came, he drew himself a bath and spent a pleasant twenty minutes thinking about the kiss he had shared with Harry. 

He threw himself into towel, then a bathrobe, when he felt the wards disturbed. It was Harry, cued in to new Ministry wards, with an animal carrier and a bag that smelled delicious. They released the cat into the house and watched as it reacquainted himself with the house. 

Harry's eyes shone with mirth, he looked good in his Auror robes, especially with a healthy tan that held from his travels. Severus eyed him hungrily, his short stubby fingers handling the pie, wondering what else those fingers were good at besides holding a wand. The electric light in the kitchen made Harry’s eyes seem a darker, more mysterious shade of green. Harry kept tapping a rhythm against one of the chair’s legs with his right leg. 

“I think I require a compensation for all the vases Banger smashed.”

“If that so? Money?” 

“Nah. I was thinking something physical, like perhaps a kiss for the smaller vase.” 

Severus’ lips twitched in amusement. He eyed him hungrily from head to toe. Harry shivered.

“It can be arranged.” 

“Really?” Harry asked with so much hope in his voice, that Snape couldn’t help but reach out to him and pull him into a kiss. He deepened the kiss, his tongue finally, finally slipping into Harry’s mouth. They both groaned. He could still taste the pie and some sweetness beneath it, that was just pure Harry. 

He maneuvered himself around the table, until nothing stood between them, his hands circling Harry’s trim waist. Harry’s hands rested on his shoulders, grounding him, keeping him safe. The boy had saved his life, again. He believed he could trust him and the idea of relying on somebody else, for the first time, didn’t bring terror, only warmth and a steady sense of calm. 

They kissed until they were out of breath. Harry led him to the bedroom with mischievous eyes, his fingers stroking Snape’s hand where they held him. Soothing him, promising him the moon and the stars, if only he kept following. There they took time to explore each other.

Severus kissed the left side of Harry’s jaw, one of his few imperfections he loved so dearly, licked the barely visible white scar on his right cheekbone, nuzzled the bare spot on his left brow, kissed the famous scar. Harry got tense when he touched it, but soon relaxed enough to enjoy it. 

“Severus,” he sighed happily. “I love it when you touch me.”

Hearing his name from Harry’s mouth made warmth rush to his limbs. They lay on the bed, intertwined, soon ridding themselves of clothes and last vestiges of modesty. He discovered new imperfections on Harry’s body, and delighted in them, kissing them passionately. Harry moaned and whined, making Severus want him even more, although he wasn’t sure it was possible. 

“You’re the first to… you know. I’ve never before… well, done_ this _,” Harry confessed into the darkness.

Severus remembered his woolen cloak, his spy cloak, used to watch Harry’s Quidditch matches. He smiled. It was useless now. 

Somehow he wasn’t upset. 


End file.
